The Tree Route

Tree Route, 5.6, Dome Rock California

The tree route might be my idea of the perfect climb. I’ve done harder, I’ve done longer, but there is something about the tree route that keeps bringing me back. I did it for the first time only a few weeks after moving to Bakersfield. I’d met Ray Purcell via an online posting, and we headed up to Dome Rock. I hadn’t climbed in over a year after an ugly fall, and getting back on the rock was a weird thing. I declined the lead on every pitch. I nervously checked and rechecked every knot. I watched Ray lead the second pitch, dropping a few pieces of gear into the perfect granite crack. The Needles loomed behind, and a bit of a breeze kept things pleasant. I started up that pitch. The perfect crack for my hands, pleasant features for my feet, and I was once again happy. By the time Ray and I topped out, I was once again thrilled to be on the rock. I knew I wouldn’t go another year without touching rock, and in the 2-plus years since we did the route, I’ve climbed all but a handful of weekends. And I’ve done the route perhaps 20 or more times now. I took my roommate up it for her first ever-climbing experience. I took a visiting German climber up it. I once soloed it on a weekday, spending an hour or two sitting on different ledges, the most alone I’ve ever been climbing. One of my favorite climbing pictures was taken at the tree at the top of the first pitch. Two friends, a couple in their 40’s, are following me up the route, it’s their second time climbing ever, and they are grinning like schoolkids.

What makes the route so great? Everything. The setting is amazing. Even the drive up is scenic, a perfect Sierra vista. Parking your car underneath the tall pines, racking up, and heading down the approach path, crunching pine needles. 10 minutes later, you stand at the base of an obvious line. Tie in, slip into an old comfy pair of climbing shoes, and start up the first pitch. It’s half a rope length to the second tree, a few interesting moves to ponder as you approach the belay, sling the tree and you’re done. Plan it so you get the lead on the second pitch, or treat a favorite partner with this gem. A solid, gorgeous crack, with plenty of face holds, heads straight out from the tree, leading 35 feet up to more discontinuous crack systems. As you approach a big “V” notch, grab a few pieces and build a belay. The next pitch goes quickly, a big fat, low angle crack, up to a gently leaning thin crack that curves around to form a ledge, your third belay. Clip the bolted anchor, belay your partner, and savor the views. The Needles, pine forests, mountains in every direction. Watch for eagles and bears, both of which I’ve seen from this route. Take your time, it’ll be over far too soon.

Pitch four, the last, is different than the rest. It’s a slab, heading out from the belay, past a single bolt, and on up to a little overlap. Throw in a cam, step over the lip, then walk up the final stretch, which rounds out, getting easier and easier with each step.

In the summer, expect curious tourists asking questions. I’ve been offered beer and smokes from this final belay. It’s time to put on your regular shoes. I always linger here. It’s not a route to rush on. I’ve attempted fast ascents of routes, even this one, but that’s like taking a Cadillac on a racecourse. The Tree route is like a big cruiser convertible. Put the top down, take your time, there is no hurry.

Leaning Tower

Leaning Tower Trip Report…..

Sadly, the pictures are lost. I’ll have to rescan

My first Big Wall (multiple days on the rock). I’d been thinking about this day since I started climbing. Actively thinking about it since my first trip (post-childhood) to Yosemite Valley, the home and mecca of big wall climbing. When I met Brian and started climbing with him a few months ago, it wasn’t long before the conversation turned to the idea of doing a big wall climb. The more we climbed together the more we discussed it, until a few months later when we set a date…then developed a plan, picked a climb, began gathering the gear, and started practicing some of the specialized techniques we would need. This would be a first for both of us.

Tues, June 8 – I get an e-mail from Brian, his haulbag had shown up just in time (thanks Russ!). He sends me a final list of things to bring, and some final thoughts on the climb. Our plan is to climb the Czech Route, near Yosemite Falls.

Weds, June 9 – I wake up early. My gear is in careful piles in the spare bedroom. I haven’t attempted to fit it all in my haulbag, and find it hard to believe it will fit. I head to work, but I’m way to excited to get anything done. Brian is driving over from Barstow, and shows up around lunchtime. I leave work at noon. We eat, then pack the stuff into Brian’s Bronco, and Leave Bakersfield. We camp just outside the park, and pack all our stuff, and do the final culling of gear. Still a BIG pile of stuff.

Thurs- We wake up early and drive into the park in time to avoid paying the $20 entrance fee. I’d been cold the night before, and have forgotten my wool hat, so we wait for the stores to open. During this time we check out our intended climb. Hmm. That approach looks heinous. Real ugly.. Hmm…maybe we should do something else. Out comes the guide book. Leaning Tower looks good. Pick out a hat. We figure we can go in today, hike to the base, do the easy climbing, climb a little. Sleep. Do the bulk of the route the next day, the finish and get down on the third. Three days car to car. I toss 12 quarts of water into the haulbag. I grab my backpack and hike a load of gear in, ropes and hardware mostly. Standing at the base of the climb is really intimidating. The whole wall looms overhead. It looks big and scary. Hike back out for the haulbag. We start climbing late, and only get one pitch (the climb is broken into sections each about a rope length long, called pitches) done before dark. We fix a rope (attach it to our high point) and rappel back down to the ledges. Although it was mostly hiking and easy climbing to get there, even our first camp is exposed and high of the ground.

Fri- We start the climb in earnest, although everything takes a long time. Just ascending the rope to our high point is scary (you have to lower yourself out from the wall and are just hanging out in space, hundreds of feet of the ground) and slow, and tiring. We climb until after dark, making the Awanahee ledge system, where we will camp. We’d planned on doing much more, but every stage of the game seemed to be taking us a long time. Climbing, following and hauling the bags.

Sat- We’ve now recognized the climb is going to take us longer than we thought. Retreat is even discussed, but the route overhangs so dramatically that that seems like it would be a big pain. We decide to press on. A long, long day leaves us just three pitches higher, and not near the next system of ledges. During a belay, a bird flies right into me, the appears to tumble off the wall. Weird. Having nowhere to sleep, we fix ropes and rappel back to the Awanahee. I get disheartened and frustrated by our slow movement, and the fact that we had to return to same ledges. Brian and I are both getting tired and are really beginning to wonder about our water, and how much longer it’s gonna take us. Retreat is again discussed and dismissed. Two much faster climbers (Matt and Jason from Montana) have caught us and are sleeping in their portaledge near us.

Sun- We wait for Matt and Jason to start before we do. They are moving quickly and we don’t want to hold them up, so they pass us. We lose precious time here. I’m down to my last 2.5 quarts of water. I could easily drink it all right them, but I ration myself. By the time we ascend out ropes to our high point, and re-haul our bags, the day is growing late. I start out to take the lead on the next pitch, but I get scared after taking about a 10 foot fall. I landed VERY uncomfortably with my legs on either side of a small corner. I wonder if I will ever be able to have children. We’ve waited a long time for Matt and Jason to finish the pitch, and then after I decide I don’t want to finish the lead, and switch with Brian, more time is gone. I’m now obsessing over water. I can feel the weight of the bottle on my hip, and it takes all my concentration to not drink it all. I dream of a 3000 ft straw that would reach the river below. The distant sounds of the river are an agonizing tease. Brian does a masterful job leading the pitch, which goes up and around a pretty good sized roof. Even following it is scary. I aid through the pieces, with myself belayed on a grigri. I arrive at the belay around nightfall. This ledge is the smallest we’ve spent the night on. Barely wider than my shoulders. We sip a few mouthfuls of water each. I eat a can of tinned peaches, sucking on each tiny chunk for minutes, eeking out the tiniest bits of moisture. Brian and I are both exhausted, but we know the top is near.

Mon- we wake up, reorganize, and start climbing. The final pitches are fun and go relatively quickly, but we are completely out of water, tired, and want to be down. We are into our fifth day of what was supposed to be a three day trip. We reach the top around 11 am, to find a bottle of gatoraid and a tin of fruit cocktail, which I think was left for us by Matt and Jason, thanks guys! Both of us are weak from dehydration and i have to sit down repeatedly. The descent from the route is down the backside, and we do a serious of rappels to reach a gulley. The rest of our descent is to one side, but a river (above Bridaveil falls) is down the hill to the other. We dump our gear and dash down the gulley. It’s steep, loose and choked with Manzanita (a densely growing bush) but my megalomaniacal obsession with reaching the water has me plunging through it with abandon. I reach the river, strip, and plunge in. The cool water and having something to drink was an amazing good feeling. I drank, laid in the sun, and drank some more. The only thing that darkened this bright hour of my life was the knowledge that we still had to get down. Filled a few water bottles, and went back up the gulley to our packs. The series of rappels, and lowering the gear was through a deep chimney, filled with loose rocks. Perhaps scarier than the climb. I was glad there was no one else doing the descent, as our every move would send down a shower of rocks. We reached the ground around nightfall, strapped all our gear onto our already heavy haulbags, then began staggering down the hill. Around midnight we finally made it into the parking lot. Five long days. Fun.

—-We drove back to Bakersfield that night, stopped in Fresno at Denny’s to eat, and got back to my apartment around 7:10 am Tues. I’d slept some in the car, but was still super tired. I showered and went to work at 8. Brian crashed for a few hours on my couch, the unpacked his truck and drove back to Barstow. I learned a lot. For a couple of newbies to the wall thing I think we did Ok. We had hoped to do it without adding any fixed gear to the climb, or needing to use a hammer and pitons, and we didn’t, which I was pleased with. There were things I’d definitely do different, things I’d change before I do another big wall, but mostly I’m pleased we did it. Even though it was hard, and had retreat been easier we might not have, I’m glad we did it. It’s funny. If you had asked me Sunday whether I’d do another, my emphatic answer would have been NO! But already the post trip haze has set in, where instead of remembering the discomforts, I remember eating Pop-Tarts for breakfast, with my feet dangling over the edge. Instead of the moments of fear, I think of the sounds the Swifts make as they bomb past. I’m sure there will be another big wall in my future….

Climbing with Dawn

For a period of a couple years, I climbed a fair bit with an east coast climber, Dawn. here are her stories.

Fresno Dome

Fresno Dome Trip Report. � May 2000

When Karl Lew and Christian started talking about Fresno Dome I was excited. Longer routes, up near Yosemite. And I hadn’t been there, so it was another pin for my map. Elevation @ 7,000 feet. I was stoked. Tom Kenney had recently posted a TR about climbing at Dome Rock, and I sent him an email talking about that, then invited him to join us on the trip.

Friday night, Tom shows up at my house. I’ve already sandbagged him into driving. We toss my gear in his truck, and we’re down the road. Pleasant conversation and an impressive collection of Grateful Dead CD’s help the time pass quickly. 11:30 or so we pull into the campground. Spot a few familiar cars, toss out the tarp and my sleeping bag, and I’m asleep in 3 minutes.

6:15 Saturday, Karl is up and about, and reluctantly I drag myself from my bag. A few hours of breakfast, gear sorting, and general relaxed hanging out. Introductions are made, and we talk about how the last time most of us climbed together, there were bunches of attractive women on the trip, and lament the fact that there were NONE on this trip. Not even unattractive women.

The Cast: Karl Lew, Bob, Jim Suaer, Christian, Renee, all from the bay area. Me, Ray and Jeff from Bakersfield. Tom from LA.

Ok, get on with the story. We hike in. The topos are hard to follow, but we pick a likely looking line and had up. I’m leading, Tom following, Christian Renee and Bob are going to follow Tom and I up the route. Others of off climbing elsewhere. The first pitch is wide, dirty and completely without merit. Oh well. I placed Toms new 4.5 Camalot. Belay Tom up. Start the next pitch. It doesn’t look like anything I saw on the topes…hmmm…strange. I spot a likely looking sort on angling flaring crack up a slab, and follow it to it’s end. A few thin face moves out to a bolt, then up. Definitely harder than 5.6, the face was probably 5.8 ish, but I couldn’t figure out how to get over to a bolt, so skipped it, giving me a pretty scary 30 foot runout. I was out of rope, so I built a belay and Tom followed up. I sort of knew I was off route at this point, so I advised Renee to look elsewhere for the route. The next pitch was pretty straightforward, but with a neat airy traverse and few other moments of excitement. Single bolt belay, sort of backed up with a nut, on a HUGE ledge and I bring Tom up. I’m looking around for the where the route goes from here. An easy looking slab above promises no gear, or bailing out to the right up some 4th looking stuff. I choose the straight up slab. Kinda exciting friction climbing with no protection except one or two pieces of marginal pro, I actually told Tom to take me off belay, and spot me like a boulder problem. I knew if I fell I would break bones on the belay ledge, but I was hoping he’d prevent me from tumbling over the edge. Exciting stuff!!! Topped out. Gorgeous summit. Walked around a bit, then hiked down the dome to the saddle where our gear was.
Tom was tired, and Karl was leaving, so Jim and I grabbed gear, a rope and blasted down the hill. I’d seen Ray and Jeff on a neat looking route, so we found their gear, and I headed up the first pitch. I somehow managed to miss every bolt on the pitch. At on point I probably spent 10 minutes on a biggish ledge, 30+ feet out from only gear, not wanting to do the moves above. I slung a creaking flake, and pulled the final moves to the belay. WHEW.

Jim ran the next two pitches together. Built a natural anchor. I followed, got to Jim’s belay. Looked for bolts on the next pitch, and spotted a double bolt belay station about 6 feet from Jim. “uh, Jim, how come you didn’t use that?” LOL. 3 more pitches, 6 total (done in 4). 1:45 minutes, would have been faster if it weren’t for my slow lead on the first pitch.

Back to camp, approaching sunset. Renee is telling of bailing of a roof. He and I grab a rope and jog up the dome. I lower him to recover his cams, and we hike down. Beer and spaghetti for dinner. And an early nights sleep.

Sunday morning my shoelaces have been snacked on…Hmm, Kinda annoying. Another slow start, and down the hill again. Tom led a supposed 5.4 that had tough start. Bob and Christian and I all followed, then we rapped from the belay. Tom and I went and looked for the South Pillar route. I led the first pitch, which was airy and fun. I talked tom into the second pitch, which seemed to freak him out a bit. He built a belay about 50 feet out. We talked about our options, and Tom was voting for going down. I traversed 30 feet over to the top of a big gully. Belayed Tom over and lowered him. He placed gear on the way down and I down climbed. Tom had built a belay. I got myself fully wedged in this wide crack. At one point I was fully thinking people would be slinging my rib cage for years. I finally freed myself. My ribs hurt pretty bad, although they seem OK now. I found a big horn, we threaded the rope. No gear left, except for my chalkbag which I left sitting on a ledge.

I stepped on a moving rock on the hike out, smashing my foot pretty bad. Pretty badly bruised, but it’s getting better…

So a fun weekend. A few casualties. My ribs and foot. Good climbing and good company

Fresno follies

FRESNO FOLLIES
A 2-day mass assault on a misplaced chunk of Yosemite

I exit the CA-99 freeway at Rosedale in Bakersfield. I am to pick up Geoff Jennings in a matter of minutes, provided I can find his place. After slightly misinterpreting his directions, I find myself miles outside of the city limits, wondering if perhaps I’ve gone too far…

After a couple hours of pleasant conversation on the road, we find ourselves at an extremely crowded Starbucks on the outskirts of Fresno. The mall containing the coffe house is jam-packed with Friday-night party seekers. I’m surprised how many of these kids look like they’ve stepped out of the 70’s Disco/cocaine scene – afro’s, sideburns, and green corduroy bell-bottoms . The traffic flows slowly like blood through clogged arteries. We cop some coffee and split.

Highway CA-41 slips by like a luminous striped serpent under my headlights. Just past Oakhurst we make a right turn onto Sky Ranch Road, ascending, as we do, one more level above city life. The cool, quiet forest of firs and hemlocks is a welcome sight.

We arrive at Fresno Dome Campground at about midnight. Geoff immediately recognizes some cars, so we pull in and unpack. Within minutes, Geoff has his spot set and crashes for the night. I’ve got the pre-climb jitters and can’t sleep, so I go for a walk.

A mile and a half of moon-lit road later I am standing above a long cascade, shimmering and foaming through an open glade. A Jeep passes, and I wave. They pass and I am alone again. I continue up the road, with hopes of reaching the Dome tonight, but my plans are about to be derailed.

I pass a few snow patches, and see headlights illuminating the deep forest ahead. The Jeep has become stuck (high-centered) in a large snow patch, and the occupants are trying in vain to dig it out. I try to help for a few minutes, but without any tools the situation is utterly hopeless. I decide to break out the Big Guns.

One of the occupants of the Jeep, Kyle, volunteers to walk the 2 miles back to camp with me to fetch my truck. As we walk, we wax philosophical about “God or No” and “Gee, the World seems screwed up…”

We reach camp and I ‘wake’ Geoff to tell him I’ll be gone a few minutes. Kyle and I return to the stuck Jeep and quickly free the poor thing from it’s icy trap. The other Jeep occupant, Fletch, turns out to be a counsellor at the nearby Christian camp. This is an odd coincidence, as Geoff had mentioned on the way up that one of our group was a part-time volunteer nurse for the camp. Fletch invites me to the camp for a meal to repay my kindness. I half-decline, knowing that we are on a ‘climbers’ schedule this weekend. We part ways, and I return to camp and crash for the remainder of the wee hours.

Up too early! It’s chilly, but not overly cold out. A constant flow of laughter parallels the gurgle and murmer of the nearby stream. What could possibly be so funny?!? Oh, yeah…there are a bunch of climbers standing around that table. Just about everything they say can be construed as humor.

I head over to the table and am introduced. I’m delighted to find that we are a very mixed bunch, except (as Geoff mentioned) for the lack of lady climbers!!

We sip coffee and chat and laugh for a while, as we all make last-minute checks before the hike to the Dome. I know these guys must be alright when none of us objects to Ray ‘recycling’ the coffee grounds in his overfilled french press…

We head up the road toward the trailhead, but are stopped a few hundred yards short by more snow. Crossing the stream, we head to the top of a flat ridge behind the Dome, then set up camp at a spot with a view right past the Dome all the way down to Fresno and beyond. Nice!

Everyone is eager to hit the rock. We quickly rack and head down…yes, the approach from here is DOWN. Isn’t that nice? After about 10 minutes of hiking and 20 minutes of topo-deciphering we decide to climb a route we think is on the topo, but actually isn’t. Geoff and I are the first team, with Bob, Christian, and Renee in the second.

Geoff leads off and gardens his way up the wide, discontinuous crack. An easy, but dirty lead. I follow and, after reaching the belay, we move to the next ledge up. With perfect hindsight, I reflect that I should have bought that 60m rope on sale, rather than the new cams. The second pitch is much nicer, following face moves under a right-facing corner. As Geoff nears the end of the rope, he has to run it out a bit. He sets a belay and brings me up. I find him at a semi-hanging stance just above some blank-ish face moves. He assures me the moves aren’t so bad, and they aren’t. Definitely not 5.6! Again, we move the belay about 25 feet to a huge ledge. Geoff warns the other team not to follow us, though where they SHOULD go is not obvious to any of us.

The third pitch looks easy, except for one spot at the apex of a small, left-facing arch. The ledge we are on looks like it wraps around the Dome, and may provide an exit. We discuss it, but decide to keep going. Geoff climbs the pitch, but sounds ambivalent about the climbing. He also notes the distinct odour of rodent pee whafting up from behind a huge detached flake. Any doubs I have melt when I see him dispatch the ‘tough spot’ with ease. He puts me on belay, and I eagerly attack the flake. I find the climbing on this pitch to be quite to my liking! I can see daylight behind the detached flake, as I heel-toe up the offwidth crack between it and the main wall. Some face moves at the top of the flake put me at the excellent belay.

We are again on a huge ledge. Above is about half a pitch of crackless, boltless friction moves. We see another possible exit to the right, but both of us are into finishing. Geoff leads off again, and after wandering around and reaching a point about 40 feet above the ledge, requests that I take him off belay and spot him! WTF, I think. This isn’t a boulder problem! We’re 400 freakin’ feet off the ground! Oh, well. At least I’M tied in. I remind him of this, and ask him to reconsider, but he’s a persistent chap. He gracefully finishes the fricton and wanders left under a man-high arch to the summit. I follow the pitch, which turns out to be enjoyable friction climbing, and we rejoice in the breezy afternoon on the summit!

Geoff heads over to the southeast-ish edge of the summit to try to spot the Bob/Christian/Renee team. I snap a few pictures. Karl and his partner (I don’t remember who was on his team for that one) appear at the top of the South Pillar while we are there. We head back to camp to rest for a few minutes. Since my training regimine is primarily bicycling, my arms have tired and I decide to relax for the rest of the day. Geoff taps out another partner, and they split for another few hours. I sit in camp and snack for a while, but I am interrupted by yet another strange coincidence.

A pretty, slender blonde lady strolls into camp, children and over-sized puppy in tow, and asks if I can pull her van out of the snow. How’bou’that?!? Two rescues in less than 24 hours! I hike back to the road with Linette (I think that’s how it’s spelled) and pull her van out of the snow. She thanks me by informing me that she is a maseuse, and gives me a ‘one free massage’ card with her cell phone number scrawled on the back. Now I know where to unwind after my next climbing day at Yosemite!

Back at the Ranch…

Evening is upon us. I drink beers with Bob and Christian while we await the others. Dinner is simple…two kinds of pasta, one with veggie sauce, but the other has been tainted by something called ‘chicken powder’ that the vegitarians in the group denounce as a contaminant. The rest of us scarf it unconsciously. Some wine is consumed, but, sadly, we have no hard-core winos in the group. The remainder of the bottle is sacrificed to the Mountain Gods.

Individuals begin tol wander off at about 9:00 to get some sleep. I head off and read myself to sleep. I hear faint voices, laughter, a relaxed tone in the center of camp, then silence, then I doze…

Part 2: Our heroes find themselves adrift on a sea of powdered chicken heads

Dawn…and I’m still asleep.

Another subalpine start. The morning is warm. I realize I’m overdressed the moment I exit the tent. I seem to be holding up the party. Coffee…coffee…um…oh, yeah. The food bag, my food bag, is hung out of reach of rodents. I AM holding up the party.

We fill up on jo and hit the trail. Another round of Topo Pictionary is held at the base of a wall that looks vaguely like an area in the guide. Lessee…4 bolts, many chicken heads, 2-bolt belay…this must be it. We take turns testing what appears to be a 5.8 friction start wrongly mated to a 5.4-rated route. But, no, the topo is indeed correct…a distinctive grey patch of rock at the base of the pitch is clearly and accurately drawn on the topo…hmmm.

OK, my turn to lead. I rack up with a sparse set of quickdraws and some single-length slings, then spend a few minutes doing the twist on the tricky start. After 25 feet I reach the first bolt, now climbing scoops and knobs on what I would consider easy 5.4, if that. From then on, it gets easier, though the bolts are placed a sporty 30 feet apart. I sling one knob halfway, not sure where the next bolt will appear. About the time the knobs disappear, and with 20 feet of rope left, I reach a nice ledge beneath the anchor. Somewhat fun, but also rather easy. I belay Christian up, and then Bob and Geoff follow.

The options ahead look bleak. There is a line of bolts that diagonals up and right, leading under a huge blob of overhanging rock. That way must be the easy walk-off the book mentions, though by now we are all ready to cremate the book and give it an airial burial. The other way, up and left, wouhd have us follow a 5.9 unprotected traverse. Neither option really appeals to us, so we decide to rap and find a more interresting route.

Geoff and I decide, after some trepidation on my part, to try the South Pillar. At least I appreciate the airy nature of the line. It looks very much like a mountaineering route, not really a crag route. The thought twists it’s tendrils into my psyche, and I can no longer resist. I blurt out an enthusiastic “OK!!”

We start in a chinquapin bush at the toe of the pillar. Geoff hops onto a big ledge, clips a bolt, and continues up over varied terrain. Near the end of the pitch, he climbs out near the right edge of the pillar, closer to space. I cringe, fearing that the move he just made will be a test for me. As I follow, I see the creativity required to lead this pitch…mostly tied-off knobs, very little gear. About halfway, I get a surprise. A nice offwidth crack reminds me that I still have nerves in my skin. The rest of the pitch, though airy, is actually fun.

The belay is set among loose blocks perched atop the lower buttress of the pillar. Straight up looks tricky at best, and up-left-ish looks good but leads into the unknown. I waffle, but eventually accept the lead. The first move is easy. Stand on the tip-top loose block in the pile and crank up every nerve to sense even a micron of movement. Sprung like a cat, I ease onto the face above…and the tension subsides. More easy moves, a big horn to yard on, and onto a ledge, but no good pro yet…the wind is picking up…Gawd! that’s a long way down… …down to 1/3 of a liter of water… …WE ONLY BROUGHT ONE ROPE!

That is a smack in the face. I look above me. A broad expanse of knob-like protrusions lay spread across a 100′ by 100′ area, and looks easy to climb but extremely difficult to protect. Above that, a blank swath, 20′ high, seems to shout down “OBSTACLE!” The few moments of mental cartwheels I’ve just done fill me with an irrational dread. I can acknowledge that it is irrational, and examine the fear like an object I hold in my hand. I turn it over and over, and see it’s facets, but like a jewler fearing to destroy an exquisite stone, I cannot bring myself to chip away at my fear.

I have not begun to jabber, but Geoff senses my concern. He asks if I can bring him up from where I am. I set a quick belay – two tied-off knobs and a funky cam – and do it. We discuss things, and I waffle. The way ahead looks so interresting, and I really would like to tick this one, and I’d hate to kill Geoff’s good time. AAARRRRGGGHHHH!! I express a not-totally-committed ‘down’ vote, and I also prepare to accept a decision to go up. Let’s face it…descent would be tricky from here, especially with only one rope.

After making a brief recon, Geoff builds a belay and brings me over to the head of a class-4 chimney he’s located. He relates the plan, and I set off down the chimney, reverse-leading. I have very little gear with me, but it doesn’t matter…there aren’t many placements to be found anyway. I make a a controlled slide out of the sphincter of the chimney, onto a tilted ledge about 60 feet off the ground. Looks like a simple rap if I can just find an anchor. I build a cheesy belay – a four-cam and a three-cam – in the only convenient crack.

Geoff begins his descent. Things are flowing right along, until he hits the squeeze at the bottom of the chimney. He gets wedged in tight, and is making horrendous faces, and noises that are pretty bad, too. I cower on the ledge, whispering to myself…”Please don’t fall…Please don’t fall…Please don’t…”

He hits the ledge. He’s in pain. I try not to aggrevate him. He has crushed his rib cage trying to save our butts. I give him unlimited time to rest, but after a couple minutes, he gets up and peeks around the corner…and immediately sends back positive vibrations! He has found a small tunnel under a flake, perfectly positioned to thread a rope and make the short rap to the ground.

We’re on the ground, and I’m pulling the rope…slowly. Geoff takes over, and shows me what 50 extra pounds and lots of sailing experience can do. The rope is free, we pack up, and hit the trail.

On the way out, Geoff talks to another team about the route, and they tell him we probably stopped just before it gets easier. When I hear this, my heart sinks. I know it is good ettiquete to listen to your partner when he want’s to go down, but I feel bad for making such a choice before we really gave it the old Harvard try. Oh, well…there will be other days, other climbs.

Overall, I had a great time! Thanks for everyone being really mellow. Sorry I didn’t bring enough beers…only so much room in the pack!

And…a BIG thanks to Geoff for being a crafty, level-headed climber and teaching me a few things!!!

Tom Kenney

Wider Isn’t Better -Utah

Halloween 2000. NorCal rec.climbing get together

(This was posted on Tom Lambert’s Site, Ergophobe.com, back when it was new. That site is not the same anymore, and the story was missing. I found it on the Interent “wayback Machine, and have ccopied it here. It was written by Tom, not me)

Warning: Your humble correspondent can only report what he witnessed, heard about, or invented out of thin air, so much of what happened will necessarily be left out.

1. Day One: The Storm

Brutus of Wyde and Nurse Ratchett made it out of the Bay Area early and nailed down two sites in Hogdon Meadows on Friday. Ergophobe and RopeGung showed up shortly thereafter, but decided to tour the Hwy 120 corridor for a while before pulling out a map and finally finding Hogdon Meadows. This was fortuitous since it gave Brutus and Nurse Ratchett time to put together a pre-Halloween dinner that couldn’t be beat, which they shared with the new arrivals. As punishment, however, Nurse Ratchett pulled out a two-liter bottle of amaretto-flavored cough syrup and made everyone drink it.

Others dribbled in over the course of the evening: Bill Folk, The Texas KiloNewton (everything’s bigger in Texas, even the KiloNewton), Chickselius, Sumo, Jens, Pat, Chris. By morning Hari Ram Dass Gurcharan Singh Khalsa Karlee Baba had showed up. Brent Ware and Andy Gale appeared at some point in the course of the day. Bill came bearing a present: he gave Chickselius her very own Talkabout, which he had found at the base of some climb. Chickselius was ecstatic: “Oh Bill, I’m so happy. That’s one less of these things up on the crags! Thank you!”

The team roused itself and was up and out of the campsite in something just under four hours, a mere hour and half of which was spent in the parking lot with people saying things like “I want to go to the Cookie. Does anyone want to come with me?” RopeGung was in an amped-up cat-herding mood and finally recruited Chickselius and Karlee to head over to Lunatic Fringe. Ergophobe recruited Jens and Bill to attempt Reed’s Left. Chris and Pat gathered Nurse Ratchett and ultimately ended up going to Knob Hill. Finally, shooting for the world heavyweight climbing title, the Texas KiloNewton and Sumo teamed up for Reed’s Direct.

Ropegung got the team out on Lunatic Fringe. Karl, ever-ready with beta, was politely told to hold his peace until disaster appeared imminent. After much pondering at the two cruxes, Ropegung claims to have smoothly and handily led the Fringe, but there is mitigating evidence as will be seen. Chickselius followed and “slipped but didn’t fall.” The Ethics Committee is still reviewing her eight-page dissertation on the ascent and going through the official rule book, the Oxford English Dictionary in hand, to determine exactly how many style points to award. A ruling on the slipped/fell distinction is expected for February 30^th, 2001. As for Karl, his behavior suggests that Ropegung exaggerates how smoothly her ascent went. It was apparently so frightening and shaky that Karlee couldn’t even look and was forced to climb blindfolded and chanting Om Mani Padme Hum all along, trying to get the frightening sight out of his mind. It is rumored that blindfold and all he followed the bottom part as fast as Ropegung could belay, but some observers feel this wasn’t a true blindfolded ascent because his Third Eye was uncovered. It is also rumored that he found it wonderfully relaxing to be babysat by two hot babes, rather than being responsible for everyone’s safety and fun.

Down the cliff a bit, the heavyweight team was working it’s way up Reed’s Direct, pitch one. KiloNewton led the first pitch and loved it, but Sumo described his ascent to this reporter as “Climb a few moves, rest. Climb a few moves, rest. It was too much for me, or more precisely, it was too much crack for me”. Looking up at the steep enduro pitch above, they decided to head over toward the Fringe to TR Old 5.10 (a face climb).

Meanwhile, around the corner Ergophobe racked up for Reed’s left, wearing not only the heaviest rack of his life, but the heaviest rack he had ever seen. Brutus of Wyde had assured him that he would want two each of #4, #4.5, and #5 Camalots, as well as some Big Bros, so he didn’t dare to lighten the rack (though it was overkill in the end, one each of the cams and no Bros for future reference, perhaps 2 #4.5s). He was teamed up with Bill and Jens, both excellent climbers, well-prepared and extremely good-natured, which was good, since by days’ end Ergophobe would prove to be none of those.

For the previous couple of weekends, Ergophobe has been practicing off-widths and squeeze chimneys, some with Brutus in the Peanut Gallery yelling advice, insults and imprecations from the ground. The most important of that advice was: 1) never have anything on your harness, but rather tow your rack, belay device, etc; 2) tie in with a long knot that won’t get in your way; 3) if you can still talk, you’re not as far in as you can get; 4) and above all, “be patient”, as in: “Look at that Em! God he’s impatient! No wonder he sucks at offwidths. It’s not a face climb! Slow down!”.

Armed with this info, Ergophobe chanted, “slower, slower, slower” all the way up Reed’s Left and, in fact, that made his wide-crack climbing experience a lot more enjoyable. There wasn’t even one time when he thought he was going to throw up. Bill and Jens seemed to have a different mantra since they flew up both pitches in a quarter the time that it had taken Ergophobe, perhaps less. As the trio got to the ledge, however, the weather seemed to be deteriorating and, as icing on the cake, the #5 Camalot was stuck a few feet from the top. Since there were no rap anchors at this belay, Bill headed for the top and Ergophobe went down to work on the cam. Then the heavens let loose with rain and hail. Ergophobe made a few more wild tugs with the nut tool and then pulled on the trigger until he broke the cables, finally giving up. Unable to see with rain on his glasses, he climbed the 5.5 pitch above yelling “Keep me tight, Bill” after every move. While Ergophobe shivered uncontrollably and slipped and fell on the 3-4 inches of hail collected on the ledge, Bill looked on skeptically, worried that Ergophobe would hurt himself while sliding around. Though Bill was apparently calm and collected, Ergophobe was able to pull two snowballs worth of hail off Bill’s shoulders and out of his collar. Just to top it all off, the rope was now caught under the fixed Camalot (due to Ergophobe’s excellent ropework) and Jens had to lower himself down in the driving hail to get it out. While Ergophobe shook, cursed and looked progressively less steady, his partners seemed to be doing fine, taking all in stride and letting him go first down the rappels. Ergophobe was met at the bottom by Ropegung who literally gave him the shirt off her back, as well as Darcy from Canada, who lent him a jacket. He kissed Ropegung in gratitude and went to kiss Darcy, until Darcy made a fist and yelled: “Back off dude. Right on. Wicked” and other phrases in Canadian that Ergophobe didn’t understand.

One last pleasure to the outing, the rope got stuck and, given the conditions, had to be left behind. After warming by the fire back in camp, Ergophobe and Ropegung went back to Reed’s and had the pleasure of climbing up the corner by the rap route in sneakers (oops!), on wet rock, in the dimming light. Ropegung was treated to the full-on headlamp ascent. It was calm and quiet in the darkness though, and if not for being thrashed by the hailstorm experience, would have been one of those wonderful quiet climbing moments. In fact, it was pretty nice, but as it was, they were happy to be down and off.

That night a fire was deemed necessary by all. We heard tales of the day, stories from the life of Mister Lonely, and got to know each other, which was the point of the whole exercise. It was a lot of fun. Without exception, everyone who showed was really nice and it was a great evening around the campfire.

2. Day Two: The Sun

In the morning the entire crew descended on Pat and Jack’s Pinnacle in beautiful weather. The only exceptions were Ergophobe, who borrowed Chris and Pat’s two pound sledge and recruited KiloNewton to go back to Reed’s for gear retrieval. Reed’s Direct being occupied as usual, KilonNewton generously offered to do Reed’s Regular in order to get up to the piece. Ergophobe is a loud-mouthed pipsqueak while the KiloNewton is a giant from Texas. Reed’s involves three pitches of tunneling/spelunking and the incompatibilities of the team soon became apparent. Ergophobe walked along the bottom of the flakes, while KiloNewton wouldn’t fit. This wouldn’t have been a problem except Ergophobe went *under* some chockstones. KiloNewton had to go over them, pull a bight of rope over the chockstones, tie an eight, untie from the other end and so on. It was quite fun, though. Ultimately, it seemed impossible to get the #5 out without seriously damaging it, so in gross violation of rules against fixed gear, it was left in place.

Meanwhile, the crew descended on Pat and Jack’s. Also, Kelly Rich was sighted in the parking lot, getting ready to go up on Crimson Cringe. Ropegung and Bill were taking turns on Cherrie’s Crack, one of the nastiest 5.10cs in the Valley. Nurse Ratchett followed Ropegung, and presumably someone followed Bill, though that information was kept secret from your correspondent. Jens was also ropegunning up various short climbs thereabouts with Chickselius in tow. Sumo, Chris and Pat were meanwhile busy on Nurdle and Gilligan’s Chicken (I think). Ropegung was very happy about dynoing for a knob on a particular route and Ergophobe decided to do it too. He was followed by Kilonewton. A crowd gathered in anticipation of KilonNewton’s dyno. “I want to see big Geoff lunge” said Bill(?). “I want to see little Tom catch big Geoff” replied Jens. Ultimately, KiloNewton climbed it statically to loud jeering and hissing from the crowd. Bill ran up a variety of other climbs and I believe both he and RopeGung did Knob Job. KiloNewton tried to get Ergophobe psyched to try the Tube:

E: “No, I’m not mentally there for any more cracks.”

K: “Come on, just try it”

E: “I’m tired.”

K: “You’ve hardly done anything today.”

E: “I’d like to have my own rack.”

K: “What do you have on your rack that’s so special?”

No one knows what happened exactly, but it is said that thus badgered, his ego grew three sizes that day, and he agreed to give it a go. It went pretty well but the crux seemed thin. He finally worked up to the locker finger jam at the end of the crux and looked longingly at the rest foothold, just above his hands. Then he looked down at his last piece of gear all the way down in Whoville. And up at the rest. And down into Whoville. Everyone knows what happened that day. His ego shrunk three sizes that day: he gave up the jam to throw in a piece, pumped out doing so, but got the clip just in time to yell “Hold me tight Geoff!” KiloNewton for his part fought his way up the climb too and, though fatigued, seemed to really enjoy it. Jens finished off the day’s climbing on Skinhead, with a reluctant and tired Bill following.

It was about then that word came through that Nurse Ratchett had, in gross violation of a still-disputed rule made by a self-appointed member of the style committee, used the Talkabouts to radio down to Brutus to tell him to make burritos and rice and beans for everyone. We all headed down to another pre-Halloween dinner that couldn’t be beat. In the dark, we said our goodbyes, and drove off leaving finger jams for traffic jams with sore hands and good memories.

Dramatis Personae

Stinson Beach Marathon

Wow. What a run! While my last two big runs have been woeful epics, this one was so great, it almost seems that writing a report on it won’t be interesting at all! If you don’t feel like reading the whole report, here are the highlights. Yesterday I might have been the happiest last place finisher ever. I took a full hour off my Catalina Marathon time, which seemed like a pretty huge improvement to me, and it certainly wasn’t because the course was easy! This also allowed me to make my goal of finishing in less than 6 hours. Anyway, details follow, it’s kinda long, sorry.

Friday afternoon I drive over to Dianne’s house, toss my stuff in her Explorer, and we head over to my friend Ray’s house. Ray has decided to join us, he decided to run this marathon just a week or two ago. Ray is a talented runner, his PR’s include (I think) 17 min 5K times, and 38 min 10K times. Way faster than I could dream of running. However, before yesterday, he’d never run anything longer than a 10K. Not even in training. The three of us drove up together, on the way, Ray expressed some trepidation about the undertaking, especially as Dianne and I discussed the course.

There was a pretty good Bakersfield contingent. The three of us were running, plus my friend Michelle, who seems spectacularly talented in convincing me that “Roads are for wimps” and that I should continue to undertake these difficult runs. She and her husband Dan where driving up separately, and Mike Finley (who ran) and his friend Paul were driving up too. So Friday night we stayed in San Francisco, in a Ramada with a sloping floor and a key that wouldn’t open the door.

Saturday found us waking at a pretty civilized 6:30, heading down to the car, and meeting up with all the others. Our three car caravan had some pretty humorous moments trying to navigate through the city, U-turns and illegal lane changes abounding. Mission accomplished, we found a coffee shop, an overly hip Internet caf�. I had a fruit smoothie and a scone, while Ray feasted on Espresso and Tiramisu. Interesting choices!

Across the Golden Gate Bridge, and 30 minutes of driving took us into Marin County. It was a gorgeous, but chilly morning. 40 something degrees outside. We got to Stinson Beach Park, and I realized (I hadn’t before) that I’d been to this park before, when I driving around the area a few years ago with my (ex-now) girlfriend. Got into my running clothes. Applied Vaseline and Band-Aids, some pre-race photos on the beach, and soon it was time for the pre-race meeting. The organization was effective, but laid back. I’d guess there were maybe 200 people there, not a huge crowd. It did seem that a bunch of them were young cute and female, I might have to run more trail races in the bay area. The Director was giving instructions, then asked how many of the crowd were doing the marathon. I was shocked when only a handful of hands went up, and the crowd burst into vigorous applause. Then he asked whose first marathon this was. Ray raised his hand, which was met with more applause and some sympathetic chuckling. The Director asked who was doing the 25K, and a few more people raised their hands, but it seemed the majority where doing the 7-mile option.

Onto the beach, we started the race at the waterline. The marathoners would get to start first, there were about 30 of us, total. Not many. Dianne ran the 25K, the rest of the Bako folks where running the marathon. Across the beach, out of the park, up the street, and within a 1/4 mile we were on trails. A trail named “Steep Ravine Trail”. We ran for a bit on rolling hills, then it was into a dense redwood forest, choked with ferns. I’ve spent so much time in SoCal, that I’d forgotten how WET parts of NoCal are, but it was spectacular. And Hard. And Steep. In three miles we gained 1800 feet, a surely hard start. Part of this trail even included a 10-foot tall ladder! It wasn’t long before I was running in a crowd, as the 7-mile and 25K people caught me, and passed me. I think 90% of the words I heard that day were “on the right” or “on the left” as people passed me on the narrow trail. But I was enjoying the spectacular scenery. Ferns, redwoods, and creeks. Narrow wet paths. Strangely, I got stung, as did 2-3 others, by a bee here. Nothing bad, but a bit strange. The first aid station was at mile 3 or 3.5, this is where the 7-mile trail split, and all of a sudden I was alone. Coming down the backside of the hill into the John Muir Monument. Gorgeous redwoods, cruising down switchbacks. Surprised hikers offering words of encouragement. Then it was back up. A long gradual climb, ascending another 1600 or so feet, but in more miles. I caught a couple, Rob and Lisa, and was running with them for awhile. This kind of running tires me out, but I was feeling good. Some of the steeper spots I’d walk a bit, but I was running (slowly) most of it.

Somewhere along this section, Michelle caught up to me. Huh? She was in front of me, and I hadn’t passed her, but apparently she took a wrong turn. We ran together, or at least within sight of each other, for the next 4-5 miles. The scenery was amazing, gorgeous forest, then breathtaking openings to views of the ocean. A short section of downhill, then the 25K trail split off. The Marathon trail took a 5 mile out and back spur (10 miles total) here. It was pretty fun. Running across the side of the coastal mountains, in open grasslands mostly, with the land dropping of dramatically to the ocean. There were two paragliders that I spotted here, that looks like fun. The faster marathoners were passing me in the opposite direction here. I was starting to tire. I had to walk small hills that I should have been able to run. Mike appeared, and the minute he saw me, starting cheering for me. Yelling my name. It was silly, but nice and made me feel good. Ray was a bit behind him, and I asked how he was doing, and he said “awful”, I guess his knees were bugging him pretty bad. I could see Michelle in front of me as we went around hills, so I knew she wasn’t far ahead.

Then I missed a turn. The trail made a short dogleg, onto then off a dirt road. For some reason I didn’t see the flagging for the second turn. So I ran down the dirt road. Down a big hill. And then I could see the road laid out in front of me. No Michelle. No other Runners anywhere. Damn. I looked to my right, and up on the hill I could see people running. Turned around and ran up the hill and saw the tape I’d missed. I’d run a bit, and standing around figuring out where I’d gone wrong, I reckon I lost about 20 minutes. Anyway, I saw Michelle as she was about 1/2 to 3/4 mile on her way back from the turnaround, so I was probably 1 or 1 1/2 miles behind her now. I really found my wrong turn disheartening, and as I ran back from the turnaround, I realized I was dead last. I was getting tired, and bummed. I kept plodding along, but I was down. I just kept trying to enjoy the scenery, but it was tough. I tripped, but didn�t fall, but it brought back memories of the misery in June when I tripped once I was tired, and hurt myself.

All of a sudden, I turned a corner, and there it was, the tape signaling I was back on the 25K course. I glanced at my watch, and realized I could still take an hour off my Catalina time, and if I hustled, finish in less than 6 hours. Alright! I turned on everything I had left, and blasted down the hill. It was downhill, but tough to run. The trail was steep, and in lots of places had steps made from dirt and railroad ties. Hard stuff to run down. But I was feeling good, my legs were tired, my shoulders hurt, and I just needed to fly down. I was tired. But motivated. I’m sure this section was gorgeous, but I was focused on the trail, and getting down quickly. I had about 6 minutes to make my goal, and I could hear traffic. Soon I spotted the road. Woohoo. I was in a near sprint now. At least as much of a sprint as I could muster. I ran up the road, and then missed the turn into the park. Whoops. Ran a few hundred feet past the turn, turned around and ran back. Ran into the park, where my friends were waiting. 5:57. Ray finished in just over 5 hours, Michelle in 5:25.

Did it. Took an hour off my Catalina time. Broke 6 hours on a tough course. Felt good. I’m sore today, but nothing too bad. I felt like a runner. I felt more like a real runner than I ever had before. I was beaming. I couldn’t stop. Dead last and thrilled. Next stop, Death Valley Marathon.

Death Valley Marathon

There were certain things I expected to a problem during this marathon.  My IT band has been sore.  I haven’t run much the last couple weeks.   Etc., Etc.  There were other things I never expected to be problematic.
a) Rain  -> Death Valley gets 2″ a year
b) Snow -> It’s Death Valley, it’s H_O_T there.
c) Mud ->  See “a”
d) Altitude -> Death Valley is the lowest point in the western hemisphere, at 282
ft below sea level.
Turns out I was right about d.  Plenty of air. No problems breathing.  a-c turned out to be a different story.

Friday afternoon found me, bags packed, heading over to Michelle’s house.  Michelle has been for been my “partner in crime” for each of my long trail runs, and this time, was my ride over to Death Valley.  We’d be meeting Diane, Kim, Barbara and Doug there.  As we crossed the Sierra’s snow was coming down.  North on 395, more snow, as we turned east, towards Death Valley, the snow quit.  Michelle and I stopped for dinner, not suspecting road conditions would be worse ahead.  As we left our way over priced meal, conditions on the road got worse.  Snow, fog and poor visibility made for a slow drive into Death Valley.  We bunked on the floor of Diane and Kim’s room, waking to a crisp, cool, WET morning.  As the runners accumulated and began signing in, rumors about the course began to circulate.  The course was supposed to have us starting at 3,000 feet, climbing over 5,000 feet, then dropping into the Valley for a finish at Badwater (-282).  Tiptoes Canyon is apparently gorgeous, but I won’t know for a while, as the park service had closed the course.   400 runners milling around, but luckily there was a backup plan. We soon learned that our run would take place on the Valley floor.

We herded onto buses, and drove to the start.  13.1 miles out.  13.1 miles back.  I was disappointed.  I like running hilly trails.  This was a flat, flat dirt road.  Several runners expressed disappointment, but I was trying to put a positive spin on it. I was interested to see how fast I could run a flat course like this.  We unloaded from the bus, and shortly after, started the race.  It was overcast and a bit chilly.  I was running in shorts and a thin long sleeve top.  The first twelve miles went pretty well.  I was cruising along at a pretty good clip (for me, slow for the rest of the world).  The two ranges of mountains, draped in snow, provided a stunning backdrop.  The course was flat, flat, flat.  Did I mention flat   Alkaline beds and the occasional scrub bush provided little scenery.  I found myself having no sense of distance or speed traveled with nothing to provide reference.  Strange, disconcerting, and disheartening.  I stared at rocks, convinced I’d seen the same rock minutes before.

I’ve been plenty tired on runs before, but found the flat, repetitive pounding *hurt* like no race I’ve done before.  The normal variety of running hilly trails stresses lot’s of muscles, but works them differently.  This road hurt me. It was even muddy in spots, and at one point began to rain.  In Death Valley!  At the 12 mile aid station I stopped to drink some water.  My IT band (Iliotibal Band ) was sore, and changing pace, even briefly, always seems to aggravate it.  I hit the turn around mark at 2:20, well faster than my normal pace, but my knee was really starting to get to me.  For the next five miles or so, my pace slowed to crawl.  I was getting passed left and right, and found the now monotonous scenery disheartening.  The quote I’d read earlier reverberated in my brain
“the most deadly and dangerous spot in the US. It is a pit of horrors- the haunt of all that is grim and ghoulish. Such animal and reptile life as infests this pest-hole is of ghastly shape, rancorous nature and diabolically ugly. It breeds only noxious and venemous things. Its dead do not decompose,  but are baked, blistered and embalmed by the scorching heat through countless ages. It is surely the nearest to  a little hell on earth that the whole wicked world can produce.” (from a newspaper report, circa 1894)
The rocky flat road hurt my feet. By mile 18 I was ready to quit.  A slight breeze picked up, I was cold, wishing I had another layer to add.  My knee was causing pain with every slow step.  At mile 20 there was an aid station.  Little relief, except the end was near.  A frequent training run I do is six miles long, and pretty flat.  I tried to tell myself that this was just like running the bike path, from the AAA building to CSUB and back.  Little help, but as I passed time I was ticking off the landmarks that would have been there.  Waterfountain.  Bridge.  The tiny park at 3 miles.  Imaginary landmarks filled the spaces in the flat monotonous terrain I was running in.  Soon, I could look across the valley and see a bright yellow speck.  I knew this was school bus at the finish, and it served as a beacon.  I picked up the pace, and the speck grew to a blob, then took form.  Soon I could see people.  Then it was over.

I finished 8 minutes faster than any other marathon I’ve done.  A personal record.  But there was no feeling of exultation, only relief.  No joy, only pain.  I was satisfied, but not happy.  There was no sense of accomplishment, nor wonder at the natural beauty.  It was a tick mark on my running shoes. Every other race has meant something wonderful to me.  This one I left feeling empty.  Oh well.  There will be other races.

The Last Gasp

Febuary 3-12, 2001
It’s time for me to find a job. I quit Western November 3rd, and have had an enjoyable few months of climbing, relaxing, running, and looking for a job. A setback/disapoinment occured when I accepted a horrible, horrible job, that I quit just two weeks later. No paycheck was worth this job. But a bright glimmer of good came from my unexpected second round of unemployment. My freind Anne (in NYC, for you rec.climbers out there) sent me an email, she was sad that my job didn’t work out, but happy that I could spend the week she’d be in Nevada climbing with her. I had already started looking for a job again, but decided this trip would be my “last gasp” of freedom from the working world, and that upon return, I would immerse myself into the job search. That decided, I set out to have a great time and do as much as I could in 9 days. I think it turned out well.

Febuary 3- Starbucks is a great place to start a climbing trip. It was here that I met Matt and his kids, Grant (11) and Stephanie (14). I’d met Matt a few weeks ago at a 10K running race. He’s new to climbing, but his enthusiasm for the sport, and desire to learn is infectious. After getting a drink, we headed out to New Jack City, near Barstow California. Here we spent saturday and sunday reinforcing some of the skills he and his kids already had, learning more, and getting on a bunch of good climbs. Very enjoyable.

Sunday evening, we parted company, and I drove to Vegas. Anne was having dinner with a friend, so I killed a couple hours walking around the strip. A bizarre world Vegas is. Interesting to watch, but there are few places in the world that I feel more out of place than on the strip. A bad magic show and learning how Krispy Kreme donuts are made filled the time. A much needed shower, then bed.

Monday-We wake up, find a starbucks, then on to Red Rocks, just 20 minutes outside of town. It’s a late start by the time we gwet up, pack the truck, get breakfast, stop at Desert Rock Sports, so we decide on a four pitch 5.8 , Lotta Balls. 45 minutes or so of brisk walking in the hot sun finds us at the base of the route. Anne leads the first pitch, 5.6. She wanders off route a bit, but we find our way to the anchors. the second pitch is mine, it’s the namesake pitch for the climb. It’d got a section of otherwise smmoth rock, with these odd shiny protruding knobs, the size of half a marble. I lead off from the belay, clip the first two bolts, but I’m stymied above them. The moves are too strange, and I can’t get myself to commit. I lower to the anchor to muster some courage, and Anne offers to give it a shot, I accept, and she heads up. Past the bolts, she charges on. I’m mad at myself as I pull the moves on toprope, knowing I could have led the pitch, but let fear intrude. Two pitches of easy climbing gets us to the top, then a few short rappels and some scrambling gets us back to our packs. We get back to the car just after dark. After finding a campsite, we head to town for mexican food, then back to camp for sleep.

Anne and I Bouldering in St. George Utah

Tuesday- Mike (Anne’s friend), Anne and I all meet in the first pull out sometime tuesday morning. The route for the day is Olive Oil, 5.7, 6 pitches. The hike takes an hour or so, and when we get there, there is couple from New Hampshire about to get on the route. They seem pleasant,and are soon out of sight. Anne starts up the frist pitch, and she and I swing leads to the top. Mike solos (climbing ropeless) above us, taking pictures of us as we climb. the three of us laugh and joke the whole time, having a wonderful time. We topout at a leisurely pace. Fabulous climb. Hike down, sprinting to the parking lot to avoid the ticket for being there after 5. The three of us head into town for a beer, and Mike, noticing the wind and cold, has offered us spot on his floor. We accept, then drive out to retrieve out stuff from the campsite. My tent, sadly, has met it’s demise at the hands of the wind, shredded. R.I.P. A shower and bed at Mikes, and Starbucks in the morning. Softman style.

Weds- The weather is looking ugly, so nothing long today. We head out to the park, a late start with stops for starbucks and grocery shopping. We hike into the Panty Wall, filled with shorter sport climbs. I lead a couple, Anne pinkpoints one, then we toprope some harder stuff. By 12:30 the weather is looking really ugly, the wind is howling, and the temp is dropping. We bail. As we drive around the loop road, snow begins to fall. Into Vegas to find a warm hat (I’d forgotten mine) then we headed east, to St. George, Utah, in the southwest corner of the State. We pulled into Zion national PArk Late, cooked dinner, and patched my tent together with duct tape. And hoped it wouldn’t rain!!!

Thurs- A cold morning greeting us, but the views of Zion were spectacular. Warm breakfast called our name, so we went into Springdale and had a yummy one. It was too cold to climb in Zion, but Anne had never been there, so we drove through the park. Gorgeous. Stunning. All those other cliches. We drove to St George and found a climbing shop, where I picked up the local guidebook. a guy there suggested Black Rocks, which someone on rec.climbing had suggested too, so off we went. Black Rocks was fun sport climbing on solid basalt. Some neat moves between short pockets. And fun route names. “Moses had a stick clip” My Favorite- “And God Said to me ‘Stick it, Dude!” An enjoyable Sunny afternoon, I was in a t-shirt for most of it. The temperature dropped hugely as the sun went down, and the wind began to howl. We drove into town to get a pizza, drove out to the campsite,got out of the truck in the cold and wind, then drove back to town to get a $20 Motel.

Friday- We wake slowly. Both of us are a bit tired, but we drag ourselves from bed, have breakfast, and head to Pioneer Park, in St. George, for some bouldering on REALLY soft sandstone. A few hours of that, fun in the sun, we decide we’ve had enough, and head to Salem, Utah, where Michael Riches (rockrat on rec.climbing) lives. He’s not home yet, so we drive up to Provo, tour the BYU campus a bit, and find another coffee shop and read the paper. We fix dinner at Michael’s house, then hit the hay.

Saturday- The big day. The Wasatch Ice Festival. We gather out things, layer our clothing, and head up to Bridalveil Falls, just outside Provo. It’s an ice festival, that had 600-1000 (!!!!) people show up. We listen to a short clinic, gather our crampons and ice tools, and hike up the short but kinda steep approach. The whole area is covered in topropes, so we get in four climbs in short order. My technique sucks on ice, and I was tired pretty quickly. After the festival wraps up, we head back to Michales house. A little relaxing, change clothes. At 7:30 they had a gear raffle and slide show. I was really hoping for the tent (I need one now!) but I didn’t get it. =/ The slide show was cool. Mark Synnot and his adventures climbing HUGE walls in Baffin Island, Patagonia and elsewhere. Very cool pics. We went to dinner, then home to bed. Michael was called out on a rescue at 11 p.m., and didn’t get home till LATE.

L->R, Anne on Ice, Me on Ice, Mike about to clobber me with an ice axe.

Sunday- A very relaxed start. We let Mike sleep in late, then spend some time organizing gear, then drive up to the ice. It looks very different with 6 people there instead of 600. Mike’s wife, Jean, joins us, she’s never ice climbed before. We all take our turns, but with the late start, adn everyone being tired, nobody does much. Fun day.

the end- All good things must come to an end, and sadly, this trip did too. We Loaded the car, said thanks to Mike and Jean, and headed down the road. Stopping to sleep, we got to Vegas Monday mid-morning. I dropped Anne off at the airport, and drove home. Sad it had to end, but happy to have done it.

Wildflower Triathalon = 1.2 Mile Swim, 55 Bike, 13 Mile Swim

It’s Saturday morning, last night I had a long drive to Paso Robles, California, met up with Kim and looked for a way to avoid paying $35 a night for camping. I had a fitful night of sleep, I was nervous, knowing that once again I was ill prepared for a race. When I decided to do it, I had ever intention of training, but somehow, between moving, a new job, travelling, and all the fabulous whitewater near my new home, training kept slipping away. I did some, a bit of swimming at the Y, some running, some biking, but I knew it wasn’t much. (one indication, I had to rent a road bike for the race. hmmm…)

So my sleep was fitful, and I woke even before my early alarm. Kim and I drove

in to the event, picked up my registration packet, and tried to get things figured out. As we entered the transition area, I was trying to check out how others had their gear arranged, learning as I went.

Quickly, it was time for the swim. This was the part I was really nervous about, having never done a mass start swim. I picked a spot at the back of the pack (for my age group), and when the horn went, ran into the water. 1.2 miles is a pretty good swim, but I felt good about it. It was a little weird when faster swimmers from the heats behind would swim into you, but I mostly avoided it by taking a WIDE path around the bouys marking the course. I was pretty stoked coming out of the swim and made my way to the transition zone.

The transition zone, with Lake San Antonio in the background.
I changed into my bike shoes, hopped on the bike and set out. A few turns and twists, and we get launched into a steep, steep climb out of the campground. Wow. This is gonna be tough. The next 30 odd miles are tough rolling hills, and the temperatures are soaring. I’m not pushing myself, but I’m trying to keep a steady pace, and I’m feeling good.

The bike ride, though tough, had an interesting effect. Some of you might remember that I used ot be quite “into” cycling, for quite some time it was my main focus, but with college and climbing and kayaking, it had gotten to the point where I don’t even own a road bike anymore. The ride really rekindled my interest in road bikes. the whir of gears, the hum of the tires, the feeling of speed. Not to say that the course wasn’t tough, but I was enjoying it.

That is, until mile 41. There, there was a monster hill. Dwarfed all the others. 4+ miles, at a 7% grade. Hot. No Breeze. It did me in. I was feeling ok before, awful after. I was trying to drink, but with the heat, and the exertion, I was getting horrible, really painful leg cramps. At one point, I was stilling riding the hill, but so slowly that a guy walking his bike passed me. I wanted to quit right there. I rode most of the hill, but ending up walking the last part. I wasn’t the only one. By that point my legs were fried, and even trying to pedal flats and downhills were tough. I was chugging water and gatoraid, but the heat was unrelenting. I saw quite a few people drop out, taking rides in SAG wagons, sitting under trees.

I finally finished the bike, and it was really tough to go out on the run. The run had a similar effect on me as the bike leg. It made me think about how much I like bicycles. => Run might be a very generous term for what took place. My legs were done, and the run was hard. Harder than any run I’ve ever done. I was shuffling and my run wasn’t seeming any faster than my walk. It was still super hot, and I saw lots of people quit. At about mile 7, the run course passed through the campground. I knew if I quit there, I was moments away from food, rest, just being done. But I forced myself to go on. I was in genuine pain. Every so often my legs would cramp, and I’d be forced to stop and stretch. Trying to drink, but feeling nauseous, it was tough.

The final downhill, I was happy to know it was almost over. I had done it. They put the medal over my neck, and I accomplished my only goal, finishing. (although I guess I missed the cutoff time, as I was DNF on the website, sadly. The list of Did Not Finish folks was LONG, with many showing no times either for the bike or run).

Me, at the end of the race. No longer smiling.
I was feeling pretty bad, My legs hurt, and I had a headache, my stomach was churning. I was led into the medic tent, where I rested for bit, took some water, and had ice packs to cool me down. I took some odd comfort in the fact that many people in there appeared in much worse shape than me, MANY had IVs going.

Some rest, and Kim and I found dinner. Camp out, and we spent Sunday relaxing at the coast.

I’m glad I did it. I’ll probably do another, but these things are way ahrder than a Marathon, and I’ll train much better for the next.

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Anacapa Island Crossing

It’s 4:15 in the morning. Monday. It’s been a long weekend, and now it’s my day off. I should be sleeping in but I peel myself out of bed, stumble to the car. I stop for gas, and head to the shop. Damian is waiting, so we load a couple of sea kayaks onto my truck. Toss the gear in. 5:30 am. Most of the world is still asleep, and we roll out of town. Huh? Traffic? There’s a wreck on the interstate, and we sit. With traffic and such, it’s a long drive to Oxnard and it’s nearly nine in the morning before we launch. Our goal, Anacapa Island, about 12 miles off the coast. I’ve never done an open ocean crossing, neither has Damian, and I’m facing the trip with excitement, anticipation, and a dose of trepidation. A heavy fog is present, which means we’ll be doing the crossing with nothing more than an inexpensive compass and a photocopied chart to guide our way. My concerns include weather, crossing a heavily used shipping channel, and finding the island in the dense fog. I can’t help doing the trigonometry, and calculating that being off by only a few degrees, we could paddle right past the island and never see it. Damian is trusting me to find the island and I feel some pressure. We head out into the fog. Within minutes, the shore disappears behind us. The ocean and sky bend together in a lifeless grey color. Sounds are muted. Colors are muted. We paddle through the fog. I keep a close eye on the compass. Listening through the fog for ships, we proceed. A sea lion approaches and plays in our wake. I start to relax, settling into the rhythm of paddling, trusting my compass. Nothing quite makes you feel as small as being in a kayak in the middle of the ocean, not being able to see anything in any direction. A grey form starts to take shape through the fog. At first I think it’s just a shadow, but the hard angles prove otherwise, and it’s an oil derrick, which will be our only navigational way point. We continue into the fog, and the derrick melts away. Hours start to pass. There’s a fair swell on the ocean. Paddling, paddling. Sea lions and dolphins play in the water. I was expecting the crossing to take 4 hours or so, but as the time stretches on, I begin to worry. I try and keep my mind free, but I secretly yearn for a glimpse of the island. I need to see it to reassure me that we haven’t paddled past it in the fog. Grey forms appear in the fog, and I think I can make out the shapes of the island. But I wonder if it’s just my imagination. Yup. It’s an island, and the arch off the end tells me that it’s Anacapa. Whew. I’m relieved. Damian give’s me the thumbs up, and I relax much more.

We paddle towards the west end of Anacapa, aiming for Frenchys Cove. Wind and an evil current make this stretch feel like paddling on a treadmill, and it seems to take an eternity. Paddling hard, and the island doesn’t seem to get closer fast enough. We’ve now been in the boats for close to 6 hours, and we’re ready to get there. Time stretches on. Eventually I land on the small rocky beach (picture with two kayaks on rocks). Damian is soon to follow. We stretch our legs and eat some food. Happy to be here. After a break, we start paddling down the coast of the island. Amazing to watch huge groups of sea lions hunting schools of fish. It’s a gorgeous area, and a sea kayak is definitely the way to see it. Playing in the water, I nose into a few sea caves, and play in one little rock garden, but the swells are big enough that I mostly just enjoy the scenery. We paddle past middle Anacapa, then on to East Anacapa. We round a corner into a cove, where we are greeted by Holly, a NP Ranger. After helping us get our kayaks on the pier, she gives a brief outline of where things are at on the island. We ferry some gear, set up camp, and I cook some burritos. Wander around the island a bit, and soon, I’m feeling sleepy. Anacapa is a working lighthouse, and there a few buildings for the National Park Personnel, but other than that it’s basically a big, pretty, rocky, birdsnest. Gulls nest everywhere. I mean, everywhere. The cacophony is amazing. the smell is amazing. Gulls EVERYWHERE. We wake to more fog, and as I eat breakfast, I flip on the weather radio that Doug (my boss at Southwind) loaned us. It cackles “Small Craft advisory- wind 15 -17 knots, rising in the afternoon” Damian throws a worried glance, and I look back at him. “Think kayaks are considered small craft? ” ” well, it’s on the big side for a kayak…” We decide to err on the side of caution, and head back as soon as possible. Pack up camp, an head down to the water. Load the kayaks, and launch. The paddle back was less worrisome. We had much more visibility, and enjoyed several pods, totalling hundreds, of dolphins, passing us, some swimming within sight under our boats, and leaping from the water just feet away. More faith in my navigation allowed me to relax a bit more, and I really enjoyed the paddle back. BIG ocean swells swept beneath us, and a few times we’d get a bit of a breeze, but mostly the weather seemed to be pushing us along, and the severe stuff we feared never surfaced. Even with a few long breaks, we made it back in a little over 4 hours. Overall, a great trip, it was fun. the wildlife was amazing. I think when I do the trip again, I’ll plan three days, to allow a day to explore the island more, but it was a blast, and I look forward to doing ti again. Unfortunately, the wonder of being out at sea, with dolphins passing all around you, is something hard to put into words, as is the amazing emptiness of a foggy open ocean, and I don’t feel like I’ve well described the experiences. It’s awesome, in the truest, original sense of the word.

LA Marathon

My girlfriend, Kim, and I did another marathon last week. Her writeup was funny, so I’m sharing it here instead of writing my own. Lazy, yeah…

Anyway, this was my first road marathon, I’ve done a bunch others, all on trails. I discovered that although LA was unique and fun, but I think I prefer trails still. 23,000 people running is hard to wrap your brain around untill you’ve discovered it. Also, I discovered that although I’ve done mostly really tough trail runs, those big hills have a natural moderating effect on my pace. I got caught up in the excitement, and went out way too fast. I ran the first half on pace for a quick finish, but crashed hard around mile 17-18. Harder than I’ve ever crashed. At mile 21 I’d completely hit the wall, I even considered waiting for Kim. I didn’t, but I considered it… So I finished in 5:20, way slower than I’d hoped, although it still allowed me to finish in 9,117th place. (out of 23,000) Anyway, Kim’s story follows…

By Kim Luu:

Let’s preface this whole marathon silliness by saying that about 2 years ago, no make that 3 (since I’ve stopped using summers to mark time and my age, I’ve started losing track of both), I casually remarked to a friend that my goals in life were to 1) wear a bikini (in public) and 2) run a marathon. Goal number 1 takes a lot of guts and no small amount of sunblock. Goal Number 2 takes about 60 bucks plus 7 bucks for parking, just about as much guts, much less sunblock, about an ounce of foolishness, a dash of pain tolerance, and a helpful heaping of training punctuated by a 4-6 hour period in which you have no other desire than to run aimlessly in a loop of other herded marathoners. And at the finish line, you get a medal and a bagel.

Why do some people do it? Because you are young and you want to prove it. Or because you are old and you want to disprove it. Or maybe you are getting over a divorce and want a new hobby fitting of a southern California lifestyle and that new blond on your arm. Me, I’m doing it for the bagel. At any rate, you’re doing it. You’ve decided to do it, even wrote about it to Aunt Edna in the Christmas newsletter you enclosed with the picture of you and your bassett hound in front of the fireplace. And now, Aunt Edna knows and so do the ladies down at the Starbucks in Aunt Edna’s little town of Wacko Wazoo (What, you don’t think Starbucks has discovered Wacko Wazoo, yet? Guess again.) Anyways, Aunt Edna knows and so does the guy holding the nonfat mocha latte schmatte. And so does your uncle, a former champion runner of his 40 square mile country before it was taken over by the communists (weren’t they all) and the next thing you know, you’ve got Dr. Scholl shoe inserts and a dietary supplement of glucosamine with chondroitin to complement your already supplemented diet of calcium and vitamin E. And so for the four months leading up to the marathon, you drag yourself out of bed at weird hours like 6 am before work (wrinkled sheets imprinted on your right cheek and dried drool caked on your left cheek) or 7 pm after work (the circulation in your legs still cut off by your knee highs) and run in post dawn and post dusk light. You run with your boyfriend, Geoff, who has done 7 marathons (all up mountains for chrissakes) and he jogs off in front of you while you pitter putter along at a constant pace. Every five to ten minutes or so, he turns around to find and rejoin you, then running backwards (bastard), he tells you you’re doing great. And you manage to do this about once a week with an occasional 12 mile run loped in between the shorter run intervals.

And if your training runs happen to be in Newport Beach, you realize a few things. Like this town is plenty full of other maniacs who are up and running at 6:00 in the morning. ‘Get a job!’ you scream in your head. Damn day traders, you think. Until you realize that its 6 AM and these folks probably do have jobs and morning is not the best time of day for you. Then you look around the neighborhood you are running and you think ‘damn, they probably do have jobs, maybe even two judging by the houses. Howard Roark would be proud. As Geoff likes to put it, if they’ve got they’re Mercedes on the street, god knows what they’ve got in the garage. (Power tools and all the bell bottoms that wouldn’t fit in the attic, I tell him.) And on runs along the boardwalk of the beach at night, you stare out into the ocean on your left as your feet hit the pavement in even rhythm. Then you look over to the homes on your right. Beyond the low wall of patios that face the ocean and into the open windows and sliding doors, the homes are beautiful, just as you would expect. The patios are decorated with lawn furniture and the walls are low and the beach is empty. You wonder if anyone before you has been as tempted to steal ugly patio furniture. You decide pastel stripes on nylon set on plastic (even good plastic) are not worth the extra weight and continue your way down the boardwalk.

The cycle, on different boardwalks and through different neighborhoods, is repeated until March 3, 2002- the day known to most people as the third day in March- but known to us marathoners (yes, that’s me, thank you, thank you very much) as race day of the LA Marathon. In other words, it’s the day after a big pasta dinner. After finding parking and making our way through the crowds to line up by pace, we are surrounded by people. Absolutely surrounded. News helicopters and a banner advertising Wahoo’s Fish Tacos fly above us as the delicate scent of B.O. just waiting to happen wafts around us. When the gun finally sounds, we leave the starting gates as one would leave a building during a crowded fire drill. We try to get out of there but we can’t, so instead we settle for the controlled chaos of 23,000 pairs of legs shuffling through half a city block and past the bottleneck. Finally, I see asphalt instead of ankles below me. I’m FREE! I’m FREE! Don’t stop me now world, I’m on fire! Pitter putter, pitter putter. Masses of people pass me by. ‘The race went to the turtle,’ I tell myself, ‘the turtle, screw the hare.’ Pitter putter, pitter putter.

Not five minutes into the race, Geoff says he has to pee. Pee, I tell him. And before I even get those words out of my mouth, I notice packs of people peeling off from the herd from left and right, just darting off the asphalt, jumping over the sidewalk, and bolting for faces of buildings. In view of police, packs of people line up against federal buildings, commercial buildings, apartment buildings, statues, large bushes, and the occasional fat, unmoving child, to pee. Men face the wall to stand and pee (lucky) ; women face the street and use their pants or shorts in a remarkable maneuver of modest peeing. I have never seen anything like it in my life. I live in fear that I never will. Should we all be so lucky as to see it even once. God bless America, I hear Celine Dion sing in the back of my head, where if you pay $60 to run 26.2 miles, the cops will let you pee on federal buildings on race day. The race course is actually pretty interesting. We start in downtown LA, with skyscrapers looming above us, the unfinished Walt Disney Music Hall in all its shiny metal scaffolded splendor just to our left. In 26.2 miles, we run through everything from poor neighborhoods with chain link fences lining the front yards of paint chipped duplexes to rolling lawns lined with wrought iron and John Deere. Korean neighborhoods careen by us after we pass Jewish and African American areas. We run past advertisements for kim chi and kosher crackers and restaurants offering Ethiopian cuisine. Off at the sidelines, volunteers give me water at every mile, Gatorade at every other. I run by with an open hand and someone slips me a paper cup full of water from his handful of three other cups. A split second before grabbing it, I notice that the tip of his finger beyond the first joint has dipped into my water. I wonder where his fingers have been. Probably in a hundred cups before mine, I think, before downing the water. I toss the cup on the ground where it joins thousands of other flattened plastic coated paper cups, littering in front of cops. On sidewalks, strangers that I don’t know offer me oranges. Others come out from their front lawn with their hoses to cool us off. Others pass out ice. One woman holds a huge bag of pretzels that runners have already discovered and flocked to.

Twenty one miles later, I am tired. My ankles hurt, my calves hurt, my thigh hurts, my back is starting to hurt, and my pitter puttering of a jog has just transformed into a brisk walk with occasional runs. Just five more miles to go. I know I will finish but it’s all just a matter of time. At mile 25, runners dressed as Wonder Woman, Cat Woman, and Spider Man pushing a stroller passes me by. Beaten by superheroes in spandex, it could be worse. Mile 26.2 and 5 hours and 50 minutes later, I finish. (In 11,032nd place, might I add).

Don’t let the smoke and clouds fool you, marathons are all about public peeing, littering, and solicitation for food. It’s like a squatters camp made legal and documented by helicopters filming for a newscast. It’s great. And once your body recovers from the abuse, the bagels taste fantastic.

Baja, Mexico Thanksgiving 2002

My Girlfriend Kim and I recently spent 6 days exploring the Northern part of Baja with friends.   She wrote a trip report, which is here. My comments were added in Green Text. It’s long, but I hope you enjoy it.

By Kim Luu and bits by Geoff Jennings

Baja California is just far enough away from Newport Beach that you can forget where you came from, but close enough that you remember how to get back there. That?s what I like to say at least. For Geoff, on the other hand, who lives so far south in San Diego that he could easily make the Duty Free shop at the border his neighborhood grocer (assuming they carried anything but alcohol, perfume, and pork rinds), Baja California is just far enough away that you can?t really go there on your lunch break, but close enough that the thought crosses your mind at least once week. In either case, Baja has been gnawing at us lately. We?re curious about the tapering stretch of land that extends below California on all the maps we?ve seen since 5th grade geography classes, and we have keys to cars that are just aching for some foreign dirt- a pretty dangerous combination.

Surfers speak of Baja with a quiet deference reserved for movies like Endless Summer and Endless Summer II. They tell of roads on cliffs that hug the coastline and overlook perfect Pacific surf breaks below. They talk of campgrounds that perch above the cliffs, down winding roads that branch off from the main highway. They mention fish tacos and tell stories that start out with opening lines like, ?there is this sweet point break that forms perfectly?? and end with lines like ??and that?s when I yanked my buddy?s thigh out of the great white?s jaws so I could beat him over the head with it for stealing my last wave.?

Sea kayakers, who have yet to have an entire movie devoted to their lifestyle, tell us of quiet bays and islands to explore on the calm, clear, waters of the Sea of Cortez side. They warn against driving at night, and tell us to watch out for bad roads with cliff drop-offs and semis.
?Okay,? I think, ?fish tacos, bad roads, fish tacos, cliff drop-offs, fish tacos, fish tacos, fish tacos.?
?Okay,? Geoff thinks, ?point break, semis, point break, night driving no-no, point break, point break, point break.?
We?re ready.

_____________

Between the two of us, Geoff and I have enough gear to man an entire YMCA outpost. Strapped to the top of the Ford Explorer is a 21-foot long banana-yellow double sea kayak and an 8-foot long red surf kayak with two bold white racing stripes that run down the center. Other stowaways inside the car include two climbing helmets, one paddling helmet, three paddles, two pairs of climbing shoes, rope, harness, chalk bags, and 40 pounds worth of other assorted climbing gear, two pairs of hiking shoes, one boogie board, a snorkel, facemask, fins, and more Dave Matthews CDs than Napster ever witnessed the exchange of. We are clearly optimistic about our vacation. We don?t have a set itinerary, but we know we want to climb some, paddle some, relax some, and eat lots. In our six days of vacation, we decide we will drive the approximately 130-mile width of Baja from Ensenada to San Felipe to explore both the pounding Pacific waves of western Baja and the sedate Sea of Cortez of eastern Baja. In between these two destinations, we will detour into a national park and perhaps fit in a climb or two.

It?s here that experienced Baja travelers will chuckle. Kim and I made the rookie mistake, despite some warnings, of underestimating drive times in Mexico. Between getting lost, Roads that are sometimes more like trails, and the occasional military checkpoint, driving in Baja takes MUCH longer than you?d expect. As such, we did do more driving on this trip than I would have liked, but oh well, chalk it up to experience.

Driving into Mexico, there is a fence at the border of Mexico and the United States that is easily visible as you make your way towards Mexico 1D, the toll road that hugs closest to the cliffs that dip into the Pacific. And what with all the American immigrations laws that have become more stringent in recent years, it is not the least surprising that this fence is as foreboding as it is. The fence is about 20 feet high, the highest foot of which bends back toward the Mexican side, laced with barbed wire. Mounted floodlights on nearby poles on the American side aim towards fence as if it were a molar to be extracted in a dentist?s office- minus the issues of National Geographic in the waiting room lobby. None of this is particularly surprising. It is, of course, a border. And as borders go, it?s pretty innocuous looking when you remember things like the Berlin Wall, and in more ancient times, The Great Wall of China when it served as something other than a kitschy souvenir stop lacking adequate handicap access. So driving along, you think, ?hmm?a fence?a high fence?with barbed wire?hmm?interesting?? And then a bird flies by or something distracts your attention and you turn to your left, away from the blurring image of the fence on your right. And when you turn back, in a master feat of Houdini, the fence is gone. Since you aren?t driving, you crane your neck back to the stretches of road that your 45 miles-per-hour-Mexican-police-fearing SUV has passed. And sure enough, there was a fence. There was a foreboding 20 feet high fence laced with barbed wire?.that just stops. In the middle of nowhere, it stops. It ends, as though it were the villain of a Sci-fi thriller that all of a sudden decided to stop and pet the golden retriever in the background. Or Darth Vader stopping his battle with Obi Wan Konobe while Luke watches on just so they can all go out for a microbrew. It just doesn?t make any sense. And as we drive by a 3-story high bust of Jesus, followed by an equally larger-than life-sized bust of a perky topless woman that follows just a few miles down the road, we realize that none of it has to. And that is the beauty of traveling.

_____________

In a campsite along Mexico 1D, we dine on abalone and jumbo tiger shrimp bought from the nearby Ensenada Fish Market, and cooked to a succulent light orange over the blue flames of a trusty camp stove. The fish market is held next to a marina of docked boats and occupy the length of about 8 open air tent stalls that line one side of what could either be a large alley or a small road, depending on your mood. The market isn?t particularly large, nor is it particularly charming- except for the fact that glistening squid tentacles sprawl languidly next to fish heads destined for the perfect seafood soup. Well, that and the prices are a quarter of that found in the States.
Ladies manning the Taquerias on the other side of the alley shout out to us as we browse recent seafood catches, ?Fish taco? Fish taco, Senor??
I shake my head at every stand and keep walking but Geoff is much more gracious me. ?No thanks, but I?ve already had lunch. No thanks, we just want to buy some fish,? he replies every few steps.

_____________

About $6.60 worth of tolls south of the border is Salsipuedes, located just north of Ensenada. Salsipuedes is a surf spot that, as Geoff tells it, happens to have a beach bottom conducive to almost perfectly consistent breaks. So perfect that if you really wanted to, you can paddle out without so much as getting your hair wet if you just cut through the deep area found only 8 feet or so south of the waves? point break. The waves aren?t very large, but they are consistently clean and make for good long rides back onto the pebble beach, which can be pretty painful if you haven?t quite mastered the ancient art of G.T.H.O.O.T. (getting the hell out of there). Mastering the delicacies of the GTHOOT technique aside, the Salsipuedes break is beautiful. In the wide expanse of blue waters that cyclically swell up to meet the sky, there are only eight or so surfers sharing a wave break. A miraculous feat considering $6.60 worth of toll distance translates into only a 50-minute drive from San Diego- if even that- and no stretch of beach containing any semblance of a wave from San Diego to Santa Barbara seems to see fewer than a couple dozen surfers.

Geoff gets up at dawn and surfs for hours, while I mainly slay dragons and discover the new penicillin in my sleep. When Geoff comes out of the water, salt and sand speckle his face and his grin is so deep that it spills out into the folds near the corners of his eyes.
?Hey, how was the surf?? I ask.
?Mmmm, reef break?? He responds.
?So it was nice, huh??
??reef break??
?Did you have fun??
?Ahhh, reef break??

It was super nice surfing there. Such a nice break, and the kind of wave, that were it in California, would be packed with territorial board surfers twenty five deep, and battling for a wave would be nearly impossible. Instead, there were more than enough rides for everyone, perfect head-high conditions (big enough to be fun, not so big as to be scary), and a pleasant vibe. Several of the boardies asked about the boat, and when a big set came through, and I was one of the only ones to get in position to take the wave, I got a ?swe-e-e-e-t? from the line-up as I took off. Nice.

He tells me his arms feel like they are going to fall off but in the four hours that he?s been out there riding, he may have caught more rides than during his entire 2 year tenure as a christened surf kayaker (tenure being the point after which you pay $30 to have custom stickers made to say ?Surf Kayaking is NOT a Crime?). ?Well, maybe not more rides. That could be an exaggeration,? he adds, ?but not by much.? Indeed, he tells me that the rides were consistent, and though they weren?t the highest that he?s surfed, they were the cleanest, breaking in just one point and spreading down the coast until the depth of the beach swallows any formation of a wave. And sharing the beach with only a handful of other surfers couldn?t have hurt either.

Geoff and I are looking for a goat trail. I can?t even remember the last time in my life I saw a goat, much less a goat trail. Nevertheless, our eyes are peeled for any sign of a goat trail, whatever that could possibly be.
We?ve stopped school children, still dressed in their white tops and navy bottoms, as they walk home from school on dusty roads country to ask ?Donde esta?? and then point wildly to a 5 page climbing pamphlet we have in our hands. ?Arrampicare?? I say, pantomiming climbing up a wall. At this point, I imagine the children think I am either (1) stuck in a box and can?t get out, or (2) unintelligible and weird because not only am I a bad mime, ?arrampicare? is not the Spanish word for ?climbing? as I had hoped. That, or Mexican schoolchildren make it a common habit to stare blankly at weird lost Americans that drive on dry dusty mountainsides with kayaks in tow. We drive around the hillside, around scattered shells of houses that promise to be constructed and fields of cars that have been deconstructed. We ask a man with no front teeth and cataracts that make his eyes look a hazy gray if he knows where the ?You Are Here? arrow on our pamphlet map was inadvertently left out. When we finally find the goat trail, as our climbing guide instructs, it is a small and narrow hike able trail (even without the goats) that cut into a hillside and lead to upward jutting rock cliffs. Geoff can?t take his eyes at what appear to be some good, really good crack climbing. And as we stare out into the distance to make out what the base of our climb should be, gray clouds roll in and drops of water start to litter the ground around us. So much for finding the goat trail?

_____________

It?s 3 or 4 in the afternoon. So far today, I surfed for 4 hours, drove around forever to find a gorgeous climbing area, then bailed due to rain, had a great lunch in Ensenada, and we?ve now decided to head for a National Park, it?s described as having Joshua Tree like boulders, while the maps show a large lagoon, and it?s up at 7?000 feet or so, in one of Baja?s little known alpine pine forests. Only 60-70 kilometers from Ensenada, I figure we?ll head there, camp, and explore in the morning. Turns out its not that easy. It?s pouring rain, and the next hour or so of driving is terrifying, I?m driving in heavy rain, gusting heavy winds, I?ve got a 21 foot kayak on the roof of my big square SUV, so I?m being blown all over the place, and pavement in these winding hilly roads with scary drop-offs is apparently expensive, as they?ve engineered the roads to be approximately a ? inch wider than the wheel-span of my car. Passing Semis cause heart flutters, and, not helping my mood, Kim keeps exclaiming ?WOW, there?s like three rusted out cars at the bottom of that drop-off!? . When we reach the small town that is our turning off point, I feel the drop in my adrenaline, a feeling I normally only notice after a hard climb, or a scary stretch of whitewater, not a drive.

So only 20-25 Kilometers to go, we start bouncing down dirt roads in the desert of Baja. The roads wander and branch like tree limbs. There are signs to the National Park, but in some kind of cost saving measure, they only put them at every 7th or 8th intersection. Which means at the other ones, you guess. We used the sophisticated method of navigation known as ?the Road MORE traveled? and it actually seemed to do us pretty well, although we still greeted each road sign with a celebration including dancing and animal sacrifice. We spotted a shack, and stopped for directions. Maps drawn in the sand get us back on track. After hours and hours of driving, and splashing through deeper and deeper puddles, we make it too the park, and camp. Smoked marlin and 3-cheese risotto for dinner. It?s raining hard, so we spend the night in the truck.

We wake to a gorgeous view. Surrounding pine trees and rocks are gorgeous. Looks like it could be a cool place to explore and climb, but it?s far too wet, so after driving around a bit, and some hiking and scrambling, we leave. Inexplicably, we find a quick road out, and 40 minutes later we?re on the highway again! Seems we took the long, LONG way there?So it?s on to San Felipe and B. De Gonzaga.

_____________

?Cuanto tiempo a Bahia de Gonzaga?? How much time to Bahia de Gonzaga, I ask the man who has just sold us an avocado, an onion, and six eggs for about a buck fifty. ?
?Como——————?..? he asks me.
What?s he asking me, I wonder. At this point, I can either try the other phrases of Spanish that I know and tell him: (1)?Pungo mas Coke por favor? (please add more Coke, for all the useful times in your life that your Mexican rum and Coke contains too much rum) or (2) dos billetos por favor (which could result in someone giving you either two tickets or two breadrolls, I don?t remember). Instead, I respond with the universal phrase, ?Huh??
?Como——————-?.? He asks me again.
?C-u-a-n-t-o t-i-e-m-p-o a B-a-h-i-a de G-o-n-z-a-g-o?? I repeat a little slower and a little louder than previously.
The man turns to a boy by the door and shoots something out in more rapid fire Spanish. The boy sticks his head out the window and returns saying, ?Truck.?
?Dos oras,? the man turns back to tell me.
Two hours? It takes just two hours to get to the Bay of Gonzaga? According to the Lonely Planet, travel time to the bay along the road we are about to embark upon may take up to 4 hours, although that too is all too dependent on road conditions. Okay, so two hours it is.

A hint to Baja travelers, if they size up your car before telling you how long it will take, the road will suck. Really really a lot.

Three and a half hours later, we are still winding around the dark roads that curve down to the Bahia de Gonzaga going just 25 miles and hour. We hear an ocean in the distance and the sound of the washboard-laden road below us, “Kuh duh kuh duh kuh duh kuh duh.” “Good thing we’re in this SUV and not my little Corolla, huh?” I say. “Yeah,” Geoff agrees, just as a little bare bone Corolla even older than mine whizzes by us on the narrow road. We look at each other and continue driving. Apparently the two-hour drive time that the grocer gave us was the DWC (driving with cajones) time and clearly not something I would have been able to stomach.

There is no light to guide our way, only the high beam of our car to light the painted six-inch white rocks that act as road barricades on the more heinous turns. “Good thing they’ve got that pebble set up on the side of the road to keep us from swerving off the edge, huh?” Geoff says. “Yeah, ingenious,” I say. Below us, the roadside plummets into the darkness that descends into the ocean, which is probably a good thing considering that our experience on winding Baja roads thus far has taught us that at the bottom of most of these turns are rusted out car carcasses, either stripped or burned to a skeleton like a turkey at the end of Christmas dinner.

A total of 4 hours, a half unscrewed roof rack, a fully unscrewed pair of sunglasses, and a misaligned steering alignment, and a late-night makeshift overnight camp next to an open field (that later turned out in daylight to be a small-plane landing strip) later, we arrive at Bahia de Gonzaga.

The one store, one hotel/restaurant, ten-house and ten-Cessna, retired American ex-pat town (which may be stretching the definition of a town) lines the edges of the bay. Calm waters lap onto the sand, such a contrast from the crashing waves of the Pacific. The waters are almost glassy in their calm, and so clear that we see our toes in even thigh deep water. The beach drops so slightly that even 50 feet into the beach, we are still wading in only thigh deep water. Around us, are dry rocky islands that dot the panorama, and the occasional jet skis that zigzag through the bay. We share our stretch of the beach with three other tents and near-permanent beach RVs (with their wheels removed) that have each staked their claim nearly a quarter mile away. In a kayak, we explore the bay and wander up to the rocky island edges. The islands are rocky outcrops with barnacled edges. We paddle over a shallow area that extends from the mainland to a nearby island. In low tide, the shallow waters recede and a footbridge of sand emerges. As we kayak around the bay, we see some fisherman in a small boat going about their business.
“Geoff, I’ll bet we could buy some fish off of them if we asked,” I say, hungry for fish even though that’s mostly what we’ve eaten for the last few days.
“Okay, you do the asking,” Geoff says.
We paddle our double kayak over to the little boat where two men are busy filleting manta ray. They work fast and without waste, throwing the extra carcasses back into the water.
“Hola. Se vende pescado, Senor?” Hi, are you selling fish, sir, I ask in my makeshift Spanish.
“Manta ray,” he replies.
“Si, si, ma se vende pescado?” Yes, yes, but are you selling fish, I ask again. He then shows us the fish that he and the other man are fishing.
“Cuanto?” How much, I ask.
“Uno, dos, tres?” he replies.
“Si, si, cuanto?” I ask again.
“No, no,” he shrugs off.
“Muchos gracis, Senor,” we say in awe. Next thing we know, he has three fish in his hands and is looking for a spot in the kayak to put the fish. He gives us the fish, and shrugs off all of our thank-yous. “Nada,” he says, it’s nothing. “Muchos gracis, Senor,” we say again.

We return to camp and enter the sea for a swim. The water is calm and the shore, in its low tide, extend at length in only waist deep water.
“We should go clamming,” I jokingly say to Geoff.
“How do you do that?” he asks.
“I don’t know. I think you just get a shovel and you dig in low-tide sand,” I reply.
“You mean like this?” Geoff says, holding up a three-inch clam in his hands.
“Oh my God! How did you do that?!?!”
“I don’t know. I just dug around in the sand and found it,” he says, holding up another clam in his hands.
I race over to him and sure enough, he’s got a couple of clams in his hands. “That’s amazing, Geoff!”
Geoff finds one and then another, his hands fill up with clams and soon enough, I become the clam caddie, following him around as his loot of clams fill up. I dig around too, but have no luck. Geoff amasses twenty clams, even throwing away the young’ins, while I struggle to find two.
“I am Hunter-Gatherer,” he grunts, as the sun sets around him.
“Yes, Hunter-Gatherer, you wanna call it quits soon, its getting cold,” I say.
That night, Geoff makes an appetizer of clams and an entr?e of onion-garlic saut?ed fish. We eat like kings on the generosity of fisherman and sand.
“Good job, Hunter-Gatherer,” I tell Geoff.

_____________

We leave Bahia de Gonzaga earlier than planned, the following morning storm clouds loom and the wind whips through our campsite, so we head back up the road to San Felipe. We shop for trinkets, and find a restaurant that has heaping plates of clams for $2. Another fun night on another gorgeous sandy beach, followed by shrimp omelets for breakfast, and all too soon it?s time to head home. We drive back through Mexicalli, and search in vain for the ?China Town? our guidebook promises. Finding only a few grungy restaurants, we take a pass and get in line for the border. A fabulous vacation, and over far too soon. Luckily, we only visited a tiny part of Baja, so there is still plenty more to explore. Once I get my truck fixed.

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Ice skating with Cody

..My brother and I took my 5 y.o. nephew ice skating this year for Christmas. Cody did great, pretty timid at first, but he got bolder fast. It was fun, here in San Diego they build an outdoor ice rink downtown. Not quite Rockefeller Square, but very pretty and fun.

SCSK Trip to Salsipuerdes – Baja

Alternate Titles for this report:

Scary Bars in Ensenada
Titanic
Nissan Sentra: Not intimidating

Jeff and Dennis show up at my place around 8 Saturday Morning. We load up into Jeff’s Izuzu, and head to Mexico. From my place it’s a 10 minute drive. We cruise down, and my excitement grows asI keep seeing nice surf spot after nice surf spot, and decent size waves. 50 miles down the road, and $4.30 in tolls later, we pull off into Salsipuerdes. Into a campsite, and within minutes we’re pulling the boats off the truck and heading down the hill and into the water.

The Carnage. Aggresive taping saved my second
day of surfing, but only just.
Salsipuerdes is a gorgeous place that feels 100 times more remote that it really is. From the break, you’d never think that you’re only 20 minutes from Ensenada, and 50 miles from Southern San Diego. It’s a rocky spot, which contributes to the gorgeous multiple reef break. Rights are long and fun, lefts are steeper and harder, but you can some amazing fast runs. Good stuff. The rocky beach makes for some tough landings and launches, but the break is worth the trouble.

We surfed for a bit, but one of my fins was loose, so I went in to check it. I’d lost a screw, retrieved a spare, and went back out. Uh Oh. It was at this point that my day began to be a bit more waterlogged than I like. Aggresive sponging kept me out there for a while, Super fun waves. The wind got worse, so we called it a day. I should have sponged out before attempting to paddle in, but figured why bother? As I paddled, my boat got lower and lower. Pointing towards the sky, I did my best to stay upright. In near the beach, I wet exited and swam in. My boat ended up in some rocks. The damage: Couple chips, Punched in fin box, and a smashed side hole about the size of a cookie. DOH!

Fish Tacos bought in the camp went quickly, and the afternoon was spent hanging out, chatting with boardies, and searching for duct tape. A borrowed roll allowed me to aggresivly tape the heck out of my boat.

Into town for Dinner, Beer, Tequila, etc. Jeff drank only coke, being the good designated driver type. Back to camp. Pass out.

I woke early, tried to rouse the others, and headed down to surf. The first hour or two was incredible. Before sunup, the lineup was small, and sweet head high+ waves rolling through. So much fun. I love that spot. Having a good time. Dennis joined me after a bit, and Jeff a few hours later (did I Mention he was the only one NOT drinking? =P )

Everbody got great rides. Dennis charged hard and Jeff did a great job carving his riverboat on some pretty steep takeoffs! It got crowded for a bit, but most of the lineup seemed to be sitting outside waiting for the big ones. We sat just inside that, taking lots of msaller (still overhead!) waves, and some big ones the boardies didn’t make. Eventually the crowd thinned, and then we got our picks.

We surfed for hours, but the duct tape kept loosining. and my sponging kept getting harder and harder to keep up with the flow. We called it around noon. Honestly, one of best sessions I’ve ever had. SWEET waves, good company, lots of good rides. Gorgeous spot. Nice Water. Other than sinking, perfect.

Again. SOON!

Oh, and I took my boat to work today,(written 1/13/03) and showed one of the guys that works there, this really cool vietamese older guy, all the damage. He tsk-tsk me, and I left my boat in the shop, intending to fix it on my lunch break. When I went out there, he’d reglassed my fin boxes, reinforcing them with mat glass, and two layers of Kevlar, fixed the hole on the side, and reglassed one little thin spot way down near the bow, and done 8 gel coat patches. Nice.

So now I’m ready to go again!

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Dry Meadow Creek

7 or 8 years ago I remember flipping through a paddling magazine, and being captivated by an image (similar to the one on the left)in a advertisement. I remember being captivated by the image, thinking it the most spectacular whitewater I’d ever seen. At the time I probably assumed it was somewhere exotic. Chile, or Nepal, or something like that. It wasn’t until years later that I found out that stretch of whitewater was in Califonia.

A few weeks ago I had plans to meet Carlos, a paddler I’d “talked” with online. Friday afternoon I found out I no longer had a job, and considered cancelling my paddling trip. But I rationalized that there was very little I could do on a weekend, so I might as well still go. I think I talked Carlos’ ear off during the drive up, I was in weird state of mind. Saturday morning found us in the Kernville Park, speaking with George about waht we wanted to paddle. Ideas bounced around, and we came upon the idea of doing Dry Meadow. George had done it before, but it would be the first time for Carlos and I. And the first time I’d paddled with either of them!

George and I only had our playboats with us, wrong for this type of run. We stopped by the local paddle shop and demo’d the Pyhrana H3 245, which was a GREAT boat. Loaded the trucks and set up the shuttle. Feeling ambitious, we put the shuttle vehicle at the bottem of the Limestone run, adding about 3 miles to the run. A bit of looking around for the right unmarked dirt road and we were at the put in. It was early afternoon by now, not much of an early sstart!

The first few miles/hours of the paddle were pretty junky. Low volume creek, lots of brush, hard to find a line. Lot’s of scraping down little rocks. Some funnish small drops, but lots of junks. I was starting to question whether anything was worth this. After a bit, we were there. We took out above the falls, and got out to scout. 9 falls overall, but the last two are un-runnable. George showed us the lines, it was impressive and scary at the same time.

I had some serious butterflies in my stomach, but they went away. I think I clenched my stomach so tight they suffocated. After carefully scouting each drop, and trying to remember all the lines, we walked back to our boats. George went down the first drop, then Carlos, then me. You have to take the drop, then park your boat next to this little landbridge, climb out of your boat, then relaunch. As I lined up at the top of the first fall, I was watching Carlos trying to climb out his boat, and then I blew the line I needed. The first drop, and I get caught in the recirculation, getting pummeled by the waterfall. I fight it for what seems a long time, and finally break loose.

It’s over far too quickly. Spectacular and fun, but pretty short. We’d got such a late start, and the approach took long enough that we don’t have time to hike up and run the Teacups again, so we start the portage around the last two, unrunnable falls. It’s allot of work, carrying boats over that kind of terrain. (for the climbers out there, imagine doing the descent from Tahquitz, or the approach to the Needles, with 60+ pound Kayaks and paddles, in booties. UGH! ) In one spot we use the throw lines to lower our boats down a big granite slab. Later we have a moment of excitement when George’s boat begins sliding out of control down a steep side gulley. Luckily it hit a bush that stopped it.

We rest for a bit after the portage, then run the last fun slide into the forks of the Kern. We’ve got several miles of Class IV continous rapids, one Class V rapid, and then more Class IV to get back to the car. The class IV stuff on the forks is fun and challenging in it’s faily continuous nature.

We stop and scout Carson Falls, a well known tough class V. George elects to run it, and Carlos and I stand by on shore, waiting with throwbags at the ready. He makes it clean, and I decide to run it. As I head towards the top, I realize too late that I’m quite far left of where I wanted to be. It goes Ok, and I maange to get through, though I get rolled right at the end. I come out fo the water to the cheers of some hikers who’d watched my run. Exciting!

It was getting late, and cold, so we powered to the end. It was a long day of paddling, lots of work and some spectacular whitewater. Very cool adventure.

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Brush Creek and Kaweah Rivers

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3 Rivers, 4 Days, 1200 Miles, One Eardrum… Central California

[nggallery id=”1616″ nggid=”80″]July 4-7, 2003

Me, in a self portrait taken upside down in my kayak.
I’d trolled the internet and my email address book for something cool to do over the July 4th holiday, and got a few responses. I was torn between surfing in Mexico and paddling rivers in Northern California, and I ended up heading north with my friend Kristi. My truck was loaded with 1 Bicycle, 2 paddlers, 3 kayaks, and 5 paddles, tons of food, so we were clearly set. Our goal was simple, we both wanted to paddle some new rivers.

Me, doing cartwheels in my kayak.
Friday, our first stop after a long drive was the Kings River. 9.5 miles of fun class III, with some suprisinging fun play spots (For those that don’t know, playboating is using a kayak and features on the river, like waves and holes, to do tricks, like surfing a wave, or doing bow stalls and cartwheels. Fun stuff).

Fun fun river. We had stashed my bike at the end to run shuttle, but spent a long time playing, and by the time we got to the end, it was getting late. Some nice boaters from LA offered a ride, which I happily took. Cook dinner, load the car, and we drive to the Toulumne River.

Ugh, it’s late and we can’t find a spot to camp. We finally pick a wide spot on a side street, and crashed out hard.

Saturday,we woke early, and meet Chris and Matt, who are going to paddle the Toulumne with us, and Chris’s wife Colleen, who has offered to run shuttle. Drive to the put in, grab a campsite, and wait.

The Toulumne is 18.5 miles long, with lots of solid Class IV rapids, and one class V. It’s a dam controlled section, so we have to wait for the flow to come up, and then there’s a relatively short period that we can get on. We hop on, and paddle away, scouting most everthing from the boat, only getting out for the class V rapid, Clavey Falls. It’s fun, relatively challenging water, and I enjoy the heck out of it. One of the most continuously cool rivers I’ve been on.

We enjoy lunch at Calvey Falls (V) and scout it. There look to be a few lines, the rafts are all going right, which looks big and powerfull, we watch some kayakers take a sneak route on the left, which still looks hard. I decide to go for it, running the right side where the rafts went. It’s big in there, but I feel good. Part way down I get backwards, and run a bit of the rapid that way, but get turned around. Fun. Chris and Kristi take the right side line, Matt (in the smallest boat of us all) decides to walk it.

Many more fun rapids, lots of good stuff. Matt and I are playing a bit, I’m suprised how well the bigger boat I’m paddling cartwheels, being used to a small boat. Furthur down the run, I try and drop into a surf wave to play and get flipped. Before I can roll, I smack a rock pretty hard with my shoulder. I still roll, and finish the run, but my shoulder is pretty sore.

A long paddle across part of a lake takes us to our car, and we drive back to camp. Dinner and I’m out like a light.

Chris, Kristi, and Matt chilling in and eddy below Calvey Falls.

Sunday we wake, Matt and I run shuttle, Chris and Colleen head to Yosemite to climb, and we wait for the water. Matt, Kristi and I put on, and talk to a girl who’d busted her face up pretty good saturday. She looks familar, and later I remember having met her at the Kern. She and her friend offer to take my car up the road for us, which is great, since it shortens our shuttle by an hour or so at the end of the day.

Super fun paddling, this is one of my favorite rivers I’ve done. It goes a lot like Saturday. Matt and I run Clavey, again I feel solid. I get flipped elsewhere, but roll right up. Kristi takes a swim somewhere after getting a bit worked, but everyone is fine.

Later it happens. My least favorite moment so far in my paddling career. We’re in the middle of a long Class IV, I’m leading, and feeling ok, although my shoulder is sore and I’m not paddling as well as normal. Right towards the end of the rapid, where it’s easier, I flip. Something that has happend to me hundreds of times, normally I roll up and it’s nothing.

I feel my body hit a rock, slide over it, and fall down the other side, I set up to roll, and hit another rock, and another. I hit 4 times, hard, on my already sore shoulder and the side of my head. I’m in agony, and pull the skirt. Right now I don’t care about swimming, I just don’t want to hit another rock. Turns out I was through the rapid, and should have stayed in the boat, but there was no way I could have known that.

Matt and Kristi help me and my boat into an eddy. I’m in allot of pain, if we’d been on the Kern I would have walked out to the road, but we’re in a somewhat remote canyon, so after a while I suck it up and we paddle on. I do the rest in pain, and paddle conservativly. By the end I feel better, but still hurting.

Matt takes off at this point, Kristi and I cook dinner at my car, and talk to a few boaters. We planned on running the Stanislaus river monday, but we hear there is no water, so we head up to the American. Another late night driving, and we camp there.

Monday My shoulder and ear are really hurting, and I just kind of ache. Feel like I went a few rounds with Tyson. I want to do something easy and fun, and the South Fork of the American is the plan. Unfortunately the river gods (dam control guys) decide they need to refill the resevoir, so that’s not going to happen, they’ll be no water. We meet Will from San fransico, and decide we’ll run the Mokulumne River, just a bit south. will picks up his new Dagger boat, and we enjoy some Cinnamon rolls. Head south and hop on the river. It’s perfect. Easy with some fun play spots, pretty with clear water and trees. Just what I need to work the kinks out and we have fun playing. It’s a long drive home, I talk Kristi’s ear off to stay awake, but it goes smoothly.

So the diagnosis is that my shoulder has bruising on the bone, which will be fine shortly, and that I ruptured my ear drum. This too should heal, and I should be able to do everything I did before, including SCUBA dive, though not for a few weeks. A bit of a drag, but could be much worse…

South Fork American River

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Jalama Beach Expression Session

I apologize in advance for any errors, omissions, or outright mistruths. I drank many margaritas and took a few knocks on the head. All photos are courtesy of and copyright Bill Becher

It’s 3:45 AM on Friday, and I drag myself out of bed. I think to myself, “Far too many of my Trip Reports start with that line.” I stumble to my truck, and drive to Chris Russ’s house, and we carpool in his truck from there. Lively conversation and Chris’s unbridled enthusiasm make the trip pass quickly. 8:30, we’re in the water. We catch a few rides in the campground, and then decide to paddle south to Tarantula. It’s not big, shoulder to head high on the boardies, but it’s fun and we get some good rides. Chris, Sage, Wayne, John B., and I are all out there. It’s a cool scene, lots of hooting and hollering and having fun. A great vibe, and John Bonaventure was showing us how good surf kayaking is done.

Tearing it up on those waves. Fun. Taylor Burch shows up a bit later, and some people start to head in. Taylor and I are out there until almost 3 with this perfect right break all to ourselves. SUPER fun. Size picked up a little, but the waves were forming really nice and had these awesome long shoulders that put you into a spot for an easy paddle out. I paddled untill my arms were Jello, catching more waves in that one session than I sometimes do in a month. Fun Fun Fun!. I was really diggin the way my boat was handling. Byron shaped a set of twin fins, 7 inches long by 2.75 inches tall, that gave me plenty of holding power, good speed, and snapping power.

Chris suffered a broken boat while paddling in, but was able to do a duct tape and goop repair job that lasted the weekend.

Taylor and I finally admitted tiredness and took the long hike back to camp. It was here I was wishing for an Airex boat! Hung out, talked, had a great dinner in Bill Becher’s RV, and I was in bed by 8:30.

It’s early saturday, and the roar of the surf is clear. Chris wakes me, he and Taylor are debating paddling out. From our camp on the hill, the surf is clearly huge, but we convince ourselves to give it a go.

We thought we would get through that. That was a small wave. We were delusional.

We suit up in the cold, misty weather, and hike to the beach. Fifteen to twenty of the west coast’s best surf kayakers (and one from the east coast) are standing on the beach, apparently waiting for some “test units” to assess the feasibility of a paddle out. We got Shut Down by the whitewater. At one point, I’d struggle past the whitewater only to stare at a breaking wave that I knew I’d never make it past, that I also knew was smaller than many others behind it. I was done. For the first time since I started surf kayaking, I retreated to the beach without catching a single wave.

While watching our struggle, there was apparently a consensus vote to head south around the point to check some more protected surf spots. After a few tries, a large group ends up at some break I don’t know the name of, near La Refugio. Twenty or so kayakers descended to the break, and it was few hours of surfing, joking, jockeying for positions, and tearing it up. Scott Eaton, Vince, Randy (or is it Randi? ), Preston, Jason, Galen, GRaham, Dennis Judson, Dennis St. Clair, Sage, Wayne, Taylor, Chris Russ, Rick Starr, Charles form the east coast, several others whose names I can’t think of, and I were having a grand time surfing and having fun. The waves weren’t big but some of them had pretty decent shape, and everyone was having fun. There was some ripping going on, and as long as you didn’t get too far inside, the waves were forgiving. I bounced off the bottom twice, hard enough to be surprised I didn’t break my boat.

Back to Jalama, and the food was being prepped. Clean up, relax, and visit with people. Randy and the Surfdogs outdid themselves, setting a new standard for event food, with multiple BBQ meats, beans, rice, tortillas, salsa, salad and margaritas! Best $5 I’ve spent in ages! We watched Vince’s DVD, then footage from the waveski worlds (I was inspired), then footage Mike Heinz had shot Fri and Sat. It always amazes me how small waves look on film compared to how they feel in person. Jason was very self complimentary, and had good things to say about all the other surfers, too! The party dwindled around 10:30, but a few hardcores carried on into the night. The Teva guys had shown up, and many thanks to them for the really nice visors and kick-ass t-shirts. I’m proudly sporting my new t-shirt with a surf kayaker graphic on the back right now. NICE!

Sunday morning the swell had dropped a bit, and the young upstarts were roaring to go. Galen (15), Graham (15 also?), Jason, and I (20-some things), and Charles from the east coast (grandpa at 30-something). Paddled out. It was still big, and the paddle out was a bit tough, but far more doable than Sat. Graham was in a slower boat, and seemed to have the worst luck with the waves, getting some pretty good pummelings while the rest of us stayed outside and cheered him on. After a truly heroic battle, he made it, and our little Posse headed down to Tarantulas. Board surfers were dominating the main peak, catching some waves that had to be approaching 20-foot faces. We sat a little to the south, catching shoulders they missed, and a little secondary peak that was forming. 10-14 foot faces is my guess. They felt big. The drops were steep and tricky. Blowing them would suck, but once you made the drop, the wave was amazingly forgiving for it’s size. Lot’s of time to carve turns up and down the huge face, and as long as you turned out at the right time, you could have a dry-haired paddle back to the lineup. Amazing. Galen was charging hard, catching- I think- as many waves as the rest of us put together. Jason and I were being cautious, but I saw him get some good rides, and I know I got some of the most memorable rides ever in a surf kayak. Graham got some rides, but he got worked on the inside. He went in, rested a bit, and paddled out again. Those two were awesome! Charles from the east coast got caught inside of a big set, and washed all the way to the beach (a long trip). It was the last we saw of him.

After a bit, Dennis Judson showed up, and then Dave Johnston, but at some point it was me and Jason sitting out there, debating whether or not to paddle back to camp or walk, my legs were aching, but it’s a long walk, so I hadn’t made up my mind.

I caught a big one. Screaming along, cutting turns, it was awesome, and I milked it. Turned out. Shit. SHIT. SHIT! There’s a big wave coming and I’m not going over, under, or around it. It picks me up and hurtles me into the near shore area, which consists of huge exposed rocks. I manage to stay upright, and get off the wave, but the water there was crazy. Felt more like a river, with ripping currents, huge boils and eddyline, and rocks everywhere. Some furious paddling and I made it into the little cove. I decided I’d call that good and not press my luck, so I started the long walk home.

Spent some time talking to Scott, Dennis J., Vince, Chris R., and John B. We were were tossing around ideas for rankings, and classes. It was interesting and fun.

Said Goodbye to everyone still there, and headed home. As Chris and I were passing C-Street, it was looking good. Head high, long rides. HMMMMM. We’re in no rush, so we stop, and surf a few hours till sunset. Another good session, and then it’s on home. There was a wreck on the 405, so I didn’t get home till late.

Fantastic, unbelievable weekend. Too much fun. Thanks to Randy and the SurfDogs for putting it on, and thanks to everyone else for being cool fun people!

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Baja Norte Expression Session, Baja, Mexico Febuary 20-22, 2004

Baja California is a wild place, it’s further away in terms of culture and people and standard of living than would seem possible for such a short distance. One could easily see from upscale San Diego suburbs to the squalor of a Tijuana slum. It’s this distance, while not physical, that makes any voyage in Baja an adventure’some more than others.

There has been a recent trend in the surf kayak community towards ‘expression sessions’. Not contests, just gathering where this rare cross of paddler and surfer gets together, cheers each other on, and rips up waves somewhere. Last fall I decided to host one at my favorite surf spot, Salsipuedes, about 20 minutes north of Ensenada, and just an hour or so south of the border.

Between announcing the event and it’s taking place, I found myself a great job quite a bit north of the border, in Reno, NV, so my part in the weekend started with a bit of a drive. I relaxed with my girlfriend Kim for awhile in Newport Beach thurs night. Friday morning we all meet near the border, and headed to Salsipuedes. We arrived to an empty campground, and an empty break.

After building Camp SCSK, we quickly rounded up gear and headed down the steep trail to the cobble beach. Launch out, and spend an amazing several hours surfing. 5 boaters, no boards, and more waves than we knew what to do with, at a super nice break. Not super huge, but big enough. Reluctantly we headed in for nourishment and to rest, but it wasn’t long before Chris Russ and I were eyeing the waves. Back into the gear, he and I head down the hill and surf until after sunset. A little smaller, but so many waves that I feel like my arms are going to drop off.

Friday night we have an amazing potluck dinner, with great Quesadillas by Kristi, awesome tamales from Dennis, Pesto pasta, beer, chips and more. Dessert from Sage and Simone, and most importantly tons of fun stories and great camaraderie.

Sat morning is overcast, and the tide is high. A group of us head into Ensenada, where we visit the fish market, look around, and eat raw oysters from street carts. A lunch of fish tacos, and it’s back to camp for an extended afternoon surf session. Rob showed up and was putting on a good show in his WW boat. Again, our group had the break completely to ourselves. Nice.

For dinner we went to Puerto Neuvo, where we enjoyed lobster. $13 dollars bought you 1.5 lobsters, with rice/beans/tortillas and margaritas. Dinner was great, tons of hilarious stories, much laughter, and good food. Can’t ask for more. Chris apparently knows every junk food spot in Mexico, and led us with glee to his favorite candy shop, where $4 bought approximetly 10 billion calories worth of delicious handmade candy. We left there, and Chris led us to ANOTHER candy shop’.

Back to camp, and people drifted off to bed. I slept fitfully, listening to increasingly heavy rain throughout the night. It wasn’t lost on me that Salsipuedes translates to ‘get out if you can’, nor were the numerous wrecks that scatter the steep hillside. I was out of bed early, and the surf was big, but it was raining and stormy. I watched a 4×4 Toyota truck slip and slide through the mud, and began to wonder if any of us would get out of there. We ended up discusiing our options, and Rob decided to leave when he could. We watched him slide around and around, but finally make the road, and cruise up the hill. Chris tried to head down the hill to the beach, and went sliding. Surfing wasn’t going to happen, so we started to pack up as the rain got heavier and heavier. Dennis didn’t think he’d get out with his small pickup and settled in for the wait. We loaded him up with extra food, and left. We were driving into the pouring rain, in some places rivers ran across the road, and mud and rockslides were evident. Unknown to us, Sage suffered the consequences when hit a rock, flatting his tire and bending his rim. Doh! Meanwhile, Chris, Kristi Kim and I were enjoying yummy lunch in Rosarito.

Tijuana was crazy, flooding had closed many streets, and the open one weren’t much better. Chris used his suburban to push stuck cars out of the way. Baby seats and other random flotsam floated by, crazyness.

And so it was over, the first Baja Norte Expression Session. Some amazing waves, some ok waves, some days with no waves. But we had great fun, great food, good adventure and great friends.

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North fork of the American, Chamberlain Falls

Last saturday I had the great pleasure of paddling with a fun group of folks on the gorgeous Chamberlin run on the North Fork of the American. A fun run, even at low winter flowa. There were several cameras along, and these pictures are from myself, Ting, James and Clay. Hope you guys enjoy.

The group consisted of Geoff (myself), Ting, Dan, Laura, James, Jessica, Wig and Clay

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Reno River Festival

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Santa Cruz Surf Kayak Festival

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Rogue River Wilderness

A few months back my freind Kristi emailed me, letting me know that she had scored a permit for the Rogue River in OR. She and I spent a few months hashing out all the details of the trip, but before long, the trip was upon us. There were going to be 8 paddlers, setting out for 3 days of paddling on the “Wild and Scenic” designated section of the Rogue River, in Oregon.

I left work early on friday, and met up with James and Jessica, after a stop at REI we headed north. It was about 7 hours total for me, but several of the paddlers from SoCal had much longer drives

The group trickled into the campground Friday night. We’d hired a raft (and raft paddler, Aaron) to carry our food and camping gear, so we spent an hour or two Sat morning sorting gear, and it was on down the river.
Simply put, it was a fantastic weekend. The river was gorgeous, the scenery amazing, the wildlife abundant, and the paddling fun. the River is mostly mellow, with no real challenging rapids, but some fun stuff, and lots of fun play spots. Both Sat and Sunday we paddled and played until late in the evening.

Jessica, 13 and only paddling for a year, spent the weekend learning to cartwheel in her kayak, and did awesome.

We ate super well, with each of us cooking a meal each. Super good stuff. The campsites were gorgeous.

Not much of a story, I realize, simply an incredible trip. Great friends, an amazing place, and fun paddling, what more could a kayaker want?

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Middle Fork of the American River

The Middle Fork American is an incredible run, class IV with at least one Class V rapid on it. It doesn’t get run often, perhaps due to the 8+ miles of “flatwater” in the center.
We had a bit of a slow start due to a car of paddlers that got lost between the takeout and put-in, but once our group arrived, we suited up in the hot sun, and slipped into the cool river. The run starts quickly, with a fun class III rapid. As we move down the run, we hit many more fun fun rapids, including the famous tunnel chute. Click here to read a full description of the run.

Tunnel Chute was a fun rapid, though I flipped in the end. There were tons of good rapids, tons and tons of fun class III or IV. And gorgeous, remote scenery. And the 8+ miles of flatwater is moving water, even with a few small rapids, so it goes quickly. Another amazing day on the river.

Enjoy the Photos!

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Matterhorn Peak

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Paddling with Patagonia Employees – Truckee River

A work day for me.  Took the Patagonia customer service folks rafting on the Truckee River

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North Fork Feather River

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